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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24682450">knowing that the sun is there</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphanbeat/pseuds/orphanbeat'>orphanbeat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>&lt;-- particularly about seeking help for your mental health, Coming Out, Communication, Depression, Dissociation, Drug Abuse, F/M, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, India, M/M, Minor Character Death, Overdosing, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Suicidal Ideation, Therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:20:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>89,794</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24682450</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphanbeat/pseuds/orphanbeat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On July 27th, 1967, a new amendment to the Sexual Offences Act received Royal Assent legalizing homosexual acts between two consenting men over the age of 21. </p><p>By August 27th, 1967, Brian Epstein is dead. </p><p>--</p><p>John decides to come out after Brian dies.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brian Epstein/John Lennon, Cynthia Lennon/John Lennon, John Lennon/Original Character(s), John Lennon/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>98</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>162</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. PROLOGUE.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, this fic will be a lot of things: an ode to Brian, a fix-it, a therapy-fic, a shoddy self-projection. Above all else, total AU! No defamation or libel intended in any way!!! General history applies post-August 1967, but I'll be moving small details around quite a bit. </p><p>This will track through Magical Mystery Tour and leave us in India. </p><p>I used the Minor Character Death tag because Brian does only appear in the prologue, while the rest of the story takes place after his death. But, he looms large. It might as well be Major Character Death, but I didn't want anyone to think that this ended in a horrible way. I swear, the worst comes at the beginning, and it becomes a journey of healthy grieving and personal development that did not get to happen in the real world. </p><p>Just casually working it out in my brain tells me that there will be three parts to this + the prologue. But I should never quote myself on things like this. But that's the aim anyway. </p><p>Also, I'm fudging the dates a bit right at the beginning. From what I gather, John et al would have already been in Greece by the 27th, but this is my AU and dates don't matter!!!!</p><p>There are quite a few legal jargon amendments to the photo provided below, hence Brian's comment about not locking doors, or having other people in their house. It was still very much possible to be prosecuted for homosexuality following 1967. I don't want to appear flippant, as though it were like a switch and everything suddenly became fine. It didn't work that way, it still doesn't work that way. </p><p>It seems like such a small, obvious step, but I can only imagine what it might have meant to people back then, to see this amendment made and supported. And, at the end of the day, this is a fix-it for me. I don't want to get too bogged down.</p><p>Anyway, please enjoy! I'm writing this as I go, unfortunately, so this is a WIP in every sense of the word. I hope to update once a week!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>PROLOGUE.</b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>On the 27th of July, 1967, John presses his lips to Brian’s and neither of them are afraid about it. John closes his eyes and imagines himself as he was at twenty-two, kissing Brian just like this in the Spanish sun. He’d been terrified. They’d been quick about it. But it had been special all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s it feel?” John asks when he feels Brian pull away. Slowly, John opens his eyes back up; the world is fuzzy with the weed they’ve just smoked. It isn’t even midday yet. The sunlight is soft as it beats through the windows in Brian’s living room. Brian hums happily and lays his head back against the couch. John smiles down at him. Deeming his wordless answer not good enough, John sets his hand down on Brian’s knee, squeezes it reassuringly. “How’s it feel?” he asks again. Brian glances up at him warmly. He twists in his seat, hitching his knees up on the couch cushions. “Hmm?” John pokes. He reaches out and lifts some lint off the front of Brian’s dress shirt. “To kiss me and not be afraid of prison labour?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We haven’t locked all the doors,” Brian answers languidly. John rolls his eyes, but smiles all the same. “We have friends on their way, they could come in at any moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good thing I’m not letting you stick it up me arse, then,” John says back, deciding that if Brian won’t take this seriously, then neither will he. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d never,” Brian says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know that,” John answers. He leans towards the coffee table for a cigarette. He lights one up. Lights one for Brian too. Brian reaches out for it, but John pulls back, letting Brian’s smoke burn between them. “You don’t,” he repeats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brian drops his hand away, knowing he’ll get his cigarette when John is good and ready to pass it. He furrows his brow, takes in John’s expression instead: his resolution and sincerity, and realizes, all these years: “You were afraid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods. “Of a lot of things,” he says. He softly places the second cigarette between Brian’s lips, smiles down at his handiwork and continues: “Of being found out. Of prison or castration. Of Mimi hating me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The change in the law only alleviates two of those things,” Brian observes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs, sounds confident and sad all at once when he says: “I’m a big rich man now. If Mimi hates me, I can look after myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She wouldn’t hate you,” Brian begins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t your family hate you?” John bites back, sounding all the more harsh for how soft and lovely the morning is. “Sorry,” John mutters. He looks down at what little space is between them and shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to sound so --... It isn’t right, the way they treat you.” He looks up and Brian feels himself choke on his cigarette. John peers at him through his glasses; his eyes are wide and honest in a way Brian never thought he’d see them. The years had softened him, almost beyond recognition. Where the crass boy in leather had gone, Brian didn’t know. He’d been chased away by acid and flowers, until all that was left was a man sweet as summer. “They should see you for how good you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how good am I?” Brian asks, just so he can hear John say it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You saved my life,” he says, and there isn’t a lick of humour to it. He’s sincere as sunlight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I?” Brian manages, because he doesn’t know what else to say in the face of that sort of honesty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was so angry before I met you,” John tells him. “I didn’t know what I was --” He stammers and shakes his head. “Or, I did, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hated</span>
  </em>
  <span> it.” Brian inhales sharply. He waits for John to continue, but he doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you?” he asks gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John goes a bit rosy. He reaches out and locks his fingers into Brian’s. “You aren’t the only man I’ve ever wanted to kiss,” he admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you?” Brian asks. “Kissed other men.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” John says, voice small, like it doesn’t even belong to him. “I think I must be bisexual, or… Whatever you want to call it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brian takes a deep breath, sees John match him as though they’re both being guided through a meditation. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever say that about yourself,” Brian says, hoping that he sounds as proud as he feels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John says with a rueful chuckle. “Neither was I.” He brings Brian’s fingers to his lips softly and says: “But that’s what I mean, Bri.” His breath on Brian’s skin makes the hair at the back of his neck rise on end. “You saved my life because you made me want to say it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Brian says. He fills the space between them, presses his lips to John’s and thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>how’s it feel?</span>
  </em>
  <span> John sighs into his mouth and it’s as much of an answer as Brian would ever need. “I hope there are other people in your life that make you want to say it,” Brian says, when they’ve pulled away, but not so far that John can’t rest their foreheads against one another. “You have so many people who love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs, knows Brian is telling him the truth, but he can’t imagine himself doing this with anyone else. “Yeah, maybe,” he whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brian squeezes the hand that John won’t let him go with. He sets his other hand on top of it, protecting John’s delicate fingers from whatever might come after them. He suddenly remembers an evening with Paul with too much wine and too many pills after one of the shows at Saville Theatre. Paul had closed his eyes against the way his head had gone swimming. He’d laid back against his seat and said: </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Have you ever noticed John’s hands? He’s got such beautiful hands.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> And his mind had been blown out, but he’d been right to say it. That’s all Brian can think about, right now, with those beautiful hands in his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So many dear friends,” Brian continues, hoping that he’ll believe it enough for the both of them. “And they all care about you so deeply.” John swallows hard and keeps his eyes down on the cushions between them. “I want you to tell them.” Brian sees John wince at the thought, so he strokes his thumb along the back of John’s palm. “When you’re ready, I want you to tell them. It’ll only make them care about you more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you care about me more?” John asks, and Brian thinks he sounds like the poor child he’s heard so much about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Brian tells him. “You’ve shown me a new part of yourself,” he explains. “I love and care about that part just as much as I do the rest of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brian watches John decide to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be brave</span>
  </em>
  <span> and look up at him. Their eyes meet and Brian swears that colours burst out of his chest. John edges closer, now he’s clinging to Brian with both his hands too. “Come with us,” he says, without context, but with enough fierceness that reminds Brian that he’s asked this already once before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To Athens?” Brian clarifies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods quickly. “We’ll get an island and it’ll be just </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he marvels. “Can you imagine?” Brian smiles at the sweet naivety, and when he doesn’t speak, John must feel the need to fill the room up with something, because he adds on: “I reckon I’m so cracked because everyone’s spent my whole life telling me what I should be. If it’s just us, we can be whatever we want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paul will never go for it,” Brian offers gently, because he knows it’s the only way to talk John out of anything. John huffs impatiently, as though he’s had this thought before and has worked very hard to ignore it. “You know he can’t stay still for too long a time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, he can leave, can’t he?” John gripes. “It’s a commune, not a cult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brian sighs. He thinks of John in Liverpool, dreaming of London. He thinks of John in London, dreaming of Lesbos. Happiness was always </span>
  <em>
    <span>somewhere else</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He was always running towards it, never nurturing it, cultivating it where it is. So, Brian kisses him, cups his cheek and </span>
  <em>
    <span>kisses him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. John’s lost when he pulls away. His eyes still closed, still feeling Brian’s lips against his own. “How’s it feel?” Brian asks. John opens his eyes, studies Brian quizzically. He knows a lesson is coming his way, but he can’t suss it out yet. “You know what this law means for us?” Brian asks, he reaches out and sets the collar of John’s shirt straight. John shakes his head minutely. “It means a step forward. Happiness, here. Not on some Greek island. It's a step towards being able to hold hands in public.” John goes pink at the prospect. “A step towards a world where people can get in trouble for hating us.” Brian takes a deep breath, finally says what he really means: “Maybe even towards marriage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brian sees all the air rush out of John’s lungs. He covers it up with a small laugh. “You’re daft,” he says. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Marriage</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brian kisses him again just to shut him up. “How’s it feel?” he asks again. “With all that on the horizon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs, closes his eyes, and takes Brian’s question seriously. Brian sees the way his chest fills up and his shoulders set themselves a little straighter. “Lighter,” he says, and it makes Brian smile. He can see them floating. He’s right: in this moment, they’re lighter. Brian wishes it meant that all their heavy moments from years past might disappear, but they don’t. Not really. The scars of a life lived illegally, alone, shamefully, they aren't gone. “Maybe this means we can stop self-medicating,” John says, and they both know they won’t. At least not now, while these scars are still too raised and present. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Brian says, because that makes him feel lighter too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Distantly, they hear Brian’s front door swing open. Loud, happy voices fill the front corridor. John leans forward, steals one last kiss, then Brian expects him to let go of his hand, but John doesn’t. He clasps it even tighter as George and Pattie barrel into the sitting room, eyes blown black with LSD. A few others join them. Strangers and acquaintances, one bloke from The Fool, but John still doesn’t let go of Brian’s hand. Pattie holds up a crate of paints she’s brought along with her for the mural they’d been planning to paint in Brian’s solarium. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we ready, Johnny?” she asks, smiling brightly. If she’s noticed the way John and Brian are holding hands, she doesn’t seem to care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m never ready for art,” John answers, feeling just as high as she does. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. PART ONE.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, this is (I hope) the worst of it. Beyond moments of angst in oncoming chapters, the rest of this story will be all about growth and healing. </p><p>I think my version of John and Cynthia are pretty OOC, but that's why this is a fix-it, damn it! </p><p>I hope the others felt authentic!</p><p>This chapter is entirely about dealing with grief on your own, in mostly unhealthy ways. They learn and they grow from here, so fingers crossed!</p><p>Thank you to everyone who's read and subscribed, it really means a whole lot! I hope this goes in a direction that you all like!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>PART ONE. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>August 27, 1967</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Bangor, north Wales</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John had spoken to Brian on Friday. He’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>spoken</span>
  </em>
  <span> to him. And Brian had told him that he’d be coming up to Wales to see them. There’d been a plan. A future. This wasn’t a part of it. John remembers someone telling him that it had been an accidental overdose. He realizes it must have been Paul. He’s the only one that actually spoke to anyone in London. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Accidental:</span>
  </em>
  <span> that just meant that there was nowhere to put this. Nowhere to put this heavy sadness and anger -- there was nothing to blame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Distantly, John realizes there are voices around him. His friends are all a part of a conversation that he knows he’s a part of too. But there’s this ringing in his ears, screaming out: </span>
  <em>
    <span>nowhere, nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> over and over and over again. He knows Cynthia is next to him, and she’s holding onto one of his hands, but he feels it as though it were happening elsewhere. To somebody else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beneath it all, he hears Brian having told him on Friday: “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I need to get out of London. It’s too habit-forming</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”And he’d known what he meant: he’d known he meant that London put him too close to pills, because London put John too close to LSD and the pills of his own. He ought to have known something was wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They won’t leave until somebody says something,” George tells the room bitterly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ought to have known something was wrong. But he’d hung himself up on the first part of what Brian had said: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I need to get out of London</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It had made him too happy to really listen to the rest. Getting out of London meant getting to north Wales. Getting to north Wales meant being together. Being together meant self-discovery in tandem, sobriety in tandem. It had fallen to shit because John hadn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>listened</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re fucked if they think they can get a statement out of us,” Rich says back. “I mean, look at us.” John isn’t even looking, but he knows Richie’s just gestured towards him. He must look as non-existent as he feels. Had he gone translucent? Had he gone so light that he just started floating up towards the ceiling? What did losing yourself actually look like?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paul should be here,” George says, and John suddenly realizes how empty the room feels without him. Without Paul and Brian. He knows it isn’t fair, because George and Rings and Cynthia are </span>
  <em>
    <span>right here</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and they’re just as important, but the room just feels so empty. John shuts his eyes to it. If he can’t see how alone he is, he can’t feel it either. He snatches his glasses off his face and rubs hard circles against his eyes with the butt of his palms. The bursting stars on the backs of his eyelids make him think of drugs, any kind, take your pick, and how much he wants them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John?” Cynthia whispers; she’s hitched her chin against his shoulder. She’s so close that he feels her voice more than he hears it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paul’s got the hardest job out of any of us,” Ringo defends, and maybe he’s right, John thinks, but Paul’s also never known how hard it is to hold this body together when all it wants to do is disappear entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what I’d say,” George says when he realizes he’s next in line for the job. Paul’s not here, John isn’t either, not really; next comes George. “What can you say?” he adds, and John suddenly hears just how young he is. He’s twenty-four and he’s never lost someone like this before. John forgets; he can’t believe it, but he forgets the years between them. Ever since they dropped acid together, John forgets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to say anything,” Rich says gently, as though he realizes the same thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll do it,” John says; they’re the first words he’s spoken since they found out. His voice is raspy and cracks with disuse. Every set of eyes are on him, and they all look so sad, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>pitying</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but they </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> if it’s anyone that should say something, it’s John. John’s known it too, all along, he just didn’t know how to get there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John,” Cyn warns quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” John says. She leans away from him. “I’ll do it. I knew him best.” It isn’t a brag, it’s just the truth. He knew Brian. He knew the man that Brian was becoming -- the men they were both becoming. Both Ringo and George sit up a little straighter. They glance at one another uneasily. Then, Rich nods solemnly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t do it alone, Johnny,” he tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” George agrees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll come with you,” Rich adds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, George is standing in front of him. He reaches for John’s hand and crouches down to his level. He isn’t a child anymore. He isn’t some kid going through his first hardship, he’s wise and comforting the way John always imagined a father should be. John feels something pass between them. Some life, maybe. Because he suddenly feels his own chest start to rise and fall again, he feels the blood rushing to his head, he feels something that must be his heart behind his rib cage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They go to the Maharishi for advice, but John only remembers what he tells him inasmuch as he knows it’s something he can use for the press outside. He doesn’t really buy any of it. Not anymore. He thinks George does, and maybe that’s enough. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cynthia is dead quiet in their cabin on the train home. She keeps her eyes fixed forward on him, as though she thinks he might fall apart if she looks away. John doesn’t remember what he’d said to the cameras, but he realizes it must not have been good. He realizes he’s only just now remembered how to swallow and blink properly; would the reporters have picked up on that? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels hot and overstimulated, as though there were still flashing bulbs in his face. He’s coming down off of whatever it is that grief makes you high on. He trembles with it, as he comes back into his own body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did I look?” John finally asks, breaking under the scrutiny and Cynthia’s sympathetic eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs. John sees that she wants to look away. Maybe she can’t, as if he’s a car wreck. “You were in shock,” she says kindly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard. He looks out the window, but it’s too dark to see anything outside. All he gets is his own reflection staring back at him and he hates it. “That bad, aye?” he says, looking down at his hands in his lap instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs again, and this time, she goes for the honesty John wants from her: “It was bad,” she admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods solemnly. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. Wherever Brian is, would he be glad that he’d looked like he was falling apart? “It had to be me, you know,” John tells her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose,” Cynthia says, but John can tell she doesn’t think that’s true. “It would have been more appropriate if they hadn’t made any of you say anything at all,” she tacks on, her voice rough and bitter. John suddenly realizes just how much he’s left her out of. The most viable option for her, was never really an option at all. Not for Beatles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s sick,” John suddenly remembers Mick Jagger telling him. “It’s disgusting that they won’t leave you alone.” But he hadn’t said: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t believe this</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>you don’t have to do this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d said: </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s disgusting, but go on. Give them a show</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ve got to sell newspapers somehow,” John muses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn just sighs. There’s nothing to be done about it now, anyway. “Do you think you’ll be alright?” She’d asked him the same thing after Stuart died; he’d told her yes, but right now, on a train back to London, he’s just too tired to lie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” he mutters. His voice cracks on his last word, as though his body knows it’s being allowed to cave in if his mouth admits to it. He feels hot tears well up in his eyes and he’s always hated to cry in front of Cynthia. He covers his face with his hands and just wills it to be over, tries to push it all back into a neat little box. But he’s done it: he’s admitted he might not make it. So everything follows suit, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> gives way. Cynthia edges forward in her seat. She’s close enough that their knees knock together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish there was something I could do,” she tells him, and she means it so earnestly, but none of it matters. There’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> that can be done. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> can bring Brian back, nothing can stop the way John knows he’ll eventually forget the way Brian kissed him, or the way that his cologne smelled, or his laugh, his smile, the way his hand felt against John’s bare skin. There’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be done, and it’s devastating because: “I really loved him,” John decides to put a word to it all, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the most powerful word he knows, but it still hadn’t been enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Cyn says, but she doesn’t say it the way she’s meant to. She doesn’t say it the way you’re meant to when somebody tells you that they loved someone they’ve lost. She says it with the weight of the whole world: she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She takes a deep breath and looks down at the carpeted cabin floor. And she asks -- she </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally </span>
  </em>
  <span>asks: “Were you with him in Spain?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John suddenly realizes that that trip’s been hanging over them the same way it had hung over he and Paul. He shakes his head, manages a simple: “no,” but now he wishes he had been. He wishes he’d just </span>
  <em>
    <span>let him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wishes he’d just given in and understood what it actually meant to feel whole. He wishes there was something deep inside of him that he could remember Brian by. Something precious and theirs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you kiss him?” she asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” John croaks and he tries to remember what it had felt like to have Brian’s lips on his; it would have to be enough. He thinks of the morning of July 27th. He remembers what it had felt like to kiss Brian without the fear underneath. They were his favourite kisses; warmed by sunlight and weed, and a mural in Brian’s solarium, filled up with the easy love he instilled in all of his friends. John hopes he’d looked at it before he died. He hopes he’d seen John somewhere in it. “I’m sorry,” he says, trapped somewhere between loving Brian and hurting Cynthia. He realizes his loving someone is always bad news. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There were other women,” Cyn says. He remembers admitting that to her just a few months ago. He remembers the way she’d sat down at their kitchen table in Kenwood and telling him, without any malice: ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>I think we ought to be divorced</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’ John realizes she’s telling him the same thing again now. “So, there were other men too,” she says with a shrug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t care that I’m --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I care that our marriage is broken, John,” she tells him sternly, making room for her own pain, the way she deserves to. John feels himself fold in, giving her the space she needs. “But no, I don’t care that you’re queer.” She doesn’t have to say she’s always wondered anyway. John knows it to be true. She wouldn’t have asked about Spain, otherwise. She’d probably wondered about Stuart too. And Paul. She’d have been right to. Even less had happened with either of them than had happened with Brian, but if they’d been like Brian, if they’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>let him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he would have kissed them too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t think there is anything else. But he’s glad to be here, alone with Cynthia, in a train cabin where no one can get them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s late by the time they arrive back in London. Julian is long asleep. Cynthia’s mother is too. John goes down to his music room because he thinks he ought to feel like writing something, but nothing comes of it. It’s late, but John calls Paul anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John?” Paul answers after the second ring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John manages. “It’s me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul sighs and his voice shakes with it. “I hoped you’d call.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We just got in off the train an hour ago,” John says. He takes a deep breath and takes in the room around him. There’s a picture of he and Paul above the piano. “I’m in my music room,” he says, because what he means is </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m trying to keep myself safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too,” Paul admits. The line goes quiet: there’s too much and not enough to say all at the same time. “How’s George? And Rings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” John tells him. “I didn’t see much of them after we left the retreat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Paul mutters. “I saw you three on the tele.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” John doesn’t have to ask how he’d looked. Paul goes quiet and it’s as much of an answer as John would need anyway. “They wouldn’t leave us alone,” John decides to say. “We had to give them something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should I have stayed?” Paul asks; John feels Paul’s guilt pouring over them both. It’s suffocating. “Do the others think I should have stayed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” John answers truthfully. “Somebody had to look after the business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul takes a deep breath. “You looked so lost, Johnny,” he manages and he realizes that this has nothing to do with the others, or business. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am lost,” John admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to come over?” Paul asks and John thinks it sounds as though he were already standing, already shouldering into a jacket to come over and see him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s alright,” John tells him. “It’s late. I’m tired. You are too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like he’s suddenly been given permission, John hears Paul fold in on himself. He hears his breathing hitch as he clings to his telephone a little tighter. “I am,” he says. “I held it together for too long today. Have you cried?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t cried,” Paul admits, and John can hear how much he hates it, how much he hates himself for it. “I did this to my mother too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s different for everyone,” John tries to tell him gently. “You need the work --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think he knew?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knew what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul swallows hard. “That I really liked him.” His voice catches somewhere in the middle and John knows that Paul’s struck the nerve. John listens, just as Cynthia had listened, as everything gives way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re crying now,” John tells him. “I can hear you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Paul admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is Jane there with you?” John asks, knowing how gracious he’d been to Cynthia for not being alone as everything fell apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Paul says, his voice hitches on a sob, and John can hear the way his breaths are getting away from him. “I sent her to her parents’. I thought I wanted to be alone, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should try to sleep, Paul,” John tells him. “Can you lie down? I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Paul says, his voice sounds distracted as he scours his music room for a pillow and a blanket. John imagines there has to be one in there. He’d taken a nap on that sofa himself the last time he’d visited Cavendish. He hears Paul breathe into the receiver while he gets himself comfortable. He hears the phone rub up against the cotton of a pillowcase. “Can you hear me?” Paul asks, once he’s comfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can hear you, Paul,” John tells him, but what he means is </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad you called,” Paul says, but what he means is </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John agrees. “I needed to hear your voice too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul goes solemn and quiet on the line. Speaking to one another was always like staring into a mirror. Paul knew John’s insides, because he knew his own. This emptiness, this blackness, it was inside John too. “I’m so sorry, John,” John hears Paul say. And it’s too much. It’s too much care and sympathy and sincerity from someone who sees him too closely. “I know how much you loved him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John manages. He thinks he ought to tell Paul everything. Tell Paul that he’d let Brian kiss him and touch him in Spain, that he’d kissed Brian for the last time only a month ago, that he’d loved him the way he’d loved Stuart, and… the way he loved Paul too, but he doesn’t. He holds onto it and feels it add its weight somewhere behind his ribcage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was really getting to know him,” Paul continues. “Properly, you know. He was so…” Paul takes a deep breath and for a brief moment, John wonders if Paul had loved Brian the way John had all these years too. “He was just such a lovely guy.” John listens to Paul break down at how </span>
  <em>
    <span>not enough</span>
  </em>
  <span> it all is. He’d never be able to put words to it. John never would either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John cradles the phone between his ear and his shoulder. He reaches out to the piano keys in front of him and plays an old Elvis number. A slow one that even Mary McCartney would have liked, if she’d ever heard it. He doesn’t sing the last verse because he isn’t sure that he can manage it. He simply plays it and listens to Paul hum along with the music. His breathing is back down to normal by the time John finishes, punctuated only a few times by some shy sniffles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both go quiet. Both are stuck in a version of 1958, where they’re still together, but neither of them are motherless. They’re happy and totally naive to what’s ahead for them. Then, Paul says: “John, I love you,” and John feels like someone’s just hit him. He holds his breath as 1958 bleeds back into 1967, and losing his mother comes back, losing Stuart comes back, losing Brian </span>
  <em>
    <span>comes back</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but he doesn’t feel afraid, because above it all, above all that </span>
  <em>
    <span>horrible shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Paul McCartney loves him. “I want to make sure you know that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the sort of confession that can only come on a day that you’ve lost a friend, but John appreciates it all the same. So, he tells Paul: “I do know,” the same way Cynthia had told him she knows. With the weight of the world. “I love you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John isn’t sure when it happens, or what song he’s singing when it does, but he knows Paul’s asleep because he sounds just like he had every night they’ve shared a bed with one another. Slowly, John hangs up the receiver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was that Paul you were on the phone with?” Cyn asks as he climbs into bed next to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John whispers. She turns towards him, studies him through the bony moonlight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath and decides to be honest: “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You all will be alright,” she promises, edging closer to him so she can take his hand. John nods, because he wants to believe her. And he thinks she must be right: some day, they all would be. It just doesn’t change the fact that John had just listened to Paul cry himself to sleep. And that Cynthia would have to do the same for him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The four of them meet at Paul’s to discuss The Beatles’ future. John still hasn’t decided what he wants that future to look like. All he knows is that he’s spent the last few days sitting at his piano, staring aimlessly at a blank piece of paper, waiting for something to pour out of him. Nothing had come out of him. Not a single note, of his own, or anybody’s else’s for that matter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul hasn’t sat down since John arrived; he’s gathered tea, a few notebooks, two guitars (one’s a lefty and one’s a righty; he’s clearly feeling far more optimistic than John is) and some food for them. John remembers Paul how he’d last heard him: afraid and guilt-ridden. He sees those things all still there, beneath the frenzy of productivity. He sees it and he accepts it. This is Paul’s way. This will always be Paul’s way. And John realizes that there are tangible things in front of him: a cuppa, some biscuits. Good, tangible things that Paul’s given to him during his time of grief and crisis. It’s Paul’s way, but it’s a good way too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, when Paul suggests they move forward with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Magical Mystery Tour</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that they keep putting the work in, John supports him. Because he wants to play music again. He wants to sit in front of his piano and make something of himself. He wants to keep on, following the man that Brian had hoped that he’d become. Besides, nobody else is offering up any other bright ideas. Ringo says that he’ll do whatever everybody else wants. George brings up their half-cooked idea of joining the Maharishi in India, but if there’s anything stupider than </span>
  <em>
    <span>Magical Mystery Tour</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s John sitting alone with his thoughts for two quiet months, losing himself in the process of trying to become one with the universe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hears Cynthia telling him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you all will be alright</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he thinks that this must be the way. Paul’s come out alright on the other side of death before. He’ll do it again, and this time, he’ll bring John along with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re sure you’re good with this?” Rings asks him when the two of them slip out for a smoke break. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What else are we meant to do?” John asks, taking his first long drag. Ringo shrugs, allowing that. “I know it’s just Paul, but I think Brian would want us to work too.” Rich looks up at him, searches his face to see that that’s true, so he nods. John toes at some of the loose stones in Paul’s back garden. “Brian saw me and he wanted </span>
  <em>
    <span>this life</span>
  </em>
  <span> for me.” John feels Ringo shift closer to him. “I’m not so cruel to throw that away now that he’s dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo inhales sharply; John realizes he hasn’t really come to terms with that word yet. But he nods anyway, breathes himself through the initial shock, then smiles up at John. “I don’t want to do that either.” John smiles back at him. It’s a good place to agree. Ringo’s smile goes a bit more amused, then he looks out across Paul’s back garden and grins widely. “The film’s a shite idea though,” he admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John says with a laugh. “But we should let him have it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes Ringo chuckle, but there’s something just sad enough about it, that he hangs his chin down towards his chest. “They were getting really close just before he died,” Rich says; he means Paul, though neither of them have actually said his name yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John mumbles; he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>, having heard Paul’s broken voice lamenting the way that he and Brian’s bond was just fried and amputated without any warning, all too soon, just as it was flourishing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you talked to him about it at all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows down some more smoke, says around it: “We talked that first night after I got in off the train.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was he alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” John allows, giving Rich the same answer he’d given Cynthia in the quiet darkness of their bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo nods, takes a deep breath and confirms: “You’re right. We should let him have this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They get into more specifics once it’s obvious that they’ve all agreed to the plan. Paul gets right to it, blabbering about the structure of the film and what they’ll need and when they’ll need it by. It’s too many details for John to keep track of. All he knows is that he’ll wake up each morning and he’ll be wherever he needs to be, and one of those mornings, he’ll wake up and he won’t feel as sad as he had the morning before. And the same will be true the next morning, and the next, then the next. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a future he can fathom. Even if it’s one that Brian isn’t a part of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks of his bunk in Bangor; how empty it had felt without Paul and Brian inside of it with him. Paul’s living room feels full. Paul is here, and John feels Brian here too. Pieces of him, carried along by all four of them, alive and well in some part of them deep down where no flash bulbs can get to. John realizes that he cares for the part of Paul that still clings to Brian. It makes him care more.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want you to tell them</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Brain says somewhere in the back of his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It will only make them care about you more</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sinks back into the green velvet chair that Paul had sat him in and he feels safe here. He feels ready to be cared about more. He feels ready to show Paul the part of him that’s still clinging to Brian too. He hears Paul, horribly broken in all the wrong places, asking: </span>
  <em>
    <span>do you think he knew that I really liked him?</span>
  </em>
  <span> and silently asks back: </span>
  <em>
    <span>do you think he knew that I loved him?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He wants to say it, he wants to make it come alive: vibrant and undeniable. He wants to give Brian the last thing that he had ever really asked of him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want you to tell them</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wants Brian to hear him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m doing this for you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul glances at him over the coffee table and something about John must give him pause. Somewhere off, Ringo and George continue the conversation, but John and Paul lock themselves away. John thinks he hears an old Elvis tune in his head and realizes that Paul must be humming it to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The meeting ends, but John doesn’t get up. He’s swallowed whole by this moment with Paul. He can’t even move, even when Paul stands and shows George and Ringo out. He feels Paul’s hand protectively on his shoulder as he tells the other two that they’ll see each other around. All John thinks is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he won’t let go</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He thinks of Brian, thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you were right. He won’t let go.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as the front door falls shut, Paul sits down on the coffee table, he puts a hand on each of John’s knees and pushes them apart so he can slot himself between them. They lock eyes with one another and Paul just waits. Even without any drugs, John sees himself inside Paul. There’s a piece of himself that he’s about to hand off to him forever; this precious piece that he hopes Paul will accept and keep safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” John offers lamely. “I don’t know where I went in that meeting.” It’s a lie, but it’s mostly a stall. “I got in my head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I knew where you were,” Paul tells him. He rubs small circles on the outside of John’s knees. There’s more, Paul knows there’s more, so he continues to wait. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, because of course he had known where he’d gone. Paul had gone there with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels Paul tap on his knee, urging him to speak what’s on his mind. “He would have wanted this for us,” John decides on. It isn’t quite what he means, but it’s true, so he says it. Paul nods. “I just want to do the things he would have wanted me to do,” he adds. </span>
</p><p><span>“Me too,” Paul coaxes. </span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“I think it’s the only way I can let him know that I --...” John swallows hard, comes up short against the truth. He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, but he’s hit a wall. He thinks if he opens his mouth, if he tells Paul how much he loved Brian, it’ll break him in half. </span></p><p>
  <span>“Johnny?” Paul whispers. John doesn’t know how he does it, but he looks up. Paul’s eyes are wide and welcoming, and he says: “It’s okay,” and John believes him. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So John plunges himself deep inside that part of himself where Brian still clings back to him. He tells Paul: “I was with him, you know.” Paul takes a deep breath. “In Spain. We never --... But I kissed him. And touched him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, traces a line down John’s kneecap. “I didn’t know,” he says, but John thinks he might have. Maybe Brian had told him. Maybe he’d just been able to read it on John’s face all these years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I kissed him a lot,” John admits, feeling his cheeks go red hot. “This whole time,” he adds, as though it’s something he should feel ashamed of, but he doesn’t. There isn’t enough room to feel shame. Not when there’s so much devastation and desperation. Paul nods and John sees that he still believes it to be true: </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever it is, it’s okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “You remember that poet in Liverpool? Royston Ellis?” Paul nods. “I reckon I must be like him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bisexual?” Paul says, and John’s glad he’s the one to have said it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods back. “I wanted you to know. I wanted --...” John feels his words hitch in his throat. He looks downward and his eyes go blurry behind his glasses. He feels Paul shift closer to him, feels his hands move up from his knees, closer to his hips. It’s the closest he can get to an embrace, for now, until John lets him in nearer. “I want Brian to know that I wasn’t ashamed of him. Of what we did. I just… I didn’t know how to say it about myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods. “I think he knows.” John nods back because he has to think that too. “Have you told anybody else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cyn,” John says with a nod. Paul takes a deep breath, likely expecting the worst. “She was really great about it,” John adds before Paul can put any words to his suspicion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good,” Paul marvels. “So, you two are…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John knows Paul means to say ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>’, so John shoves that question right out of his head and instead says: “Getting a divorce, probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Paul says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs helplessly. “We’d talked about it before. It isn’t just this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Paul mutters sympathetically. He sighs, chews on the inside of his cheek and asks: “Will you tell the others?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so,” John mumbles. “I don’t know when yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Paul says. “I’ll keep my mouth shut till then.” John smiles graciously. “They’ll be good about it too,” Paul assures. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know,” John answers. “It’s just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s hard,” Paul says for him. “I get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks up at him and sees himself inside Paul again. He thinks there’s a song somewhere inside this moment. This moment where he is Paul and Paul is him. A song without meaning to anyone except for the two of them. And even between them, it might not make much sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels Paul’s hand go to the back of his neck, so he shuts his eyes and lets Paul pull him in towards his chest. He knows he must wrap his arms back around Paul too because he can feel the way he’s grabbing fistfuls of the back of Paul’s shirt. He presses himself closer, his cheek up against Paul’s collarbone, and he thinks that they must have become one person, because he can’t just hear and feel Paul’s heartbeat as though it were outside of him, he hears it and feels it deep under his skin. Paul breathes, so John breathes too. He feels alive and well in a way he hasn’t since Brian left them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sits in front of his piano that night and words come to him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am he, as you are he, as you are me, and we are all together.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the first day of the film, John wakes up to a hole in his heart. Even before he’s opened his eyes, he sees Brian there behind them. He sees him smiling at them as though they were making their first film and not their third. He sees Brian coming to see him in his dressing room at Twickenham Studios, dead proud of how far they’ve come. He sees Brian twisting the room’s lock closed and putting his hands on John’s hips as if he were wearing the best suit he’d ever owned. Brian had kissed him. He’d kissed him on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Help!</span>
  </em>
  <span> too, but those kisses had been different. Desperate and foggier, like they both had something to say to one another, but could never quite find the right words for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John wonders what their kisses might have been like on this film. Would he even have a dressing room for them to disappear to? Today was the day -- the first day on his road to recovery -- but John still felt like he had more questions than answers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn rolls over and peers up at him groggily. “You’ve got to go,” she tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” he mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shifts closer and gives his elbow a tight squeeze. John thinks she might have done this too on all of his other first shooting days. “What are you thinking about?” she asks him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trying to remember my lines,” he lies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Cynthia hums, too kind to tell him that she knows he’s lying. They both know full-well that there isn’t much of a script involved. “Do you want me to drive you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John turns to her and she means more than what she’s actually saying. She’d come with him to the set if he asked her to, he realizes. He smiles and says gently: “No, it’s alright.” He uses pressing a kiss to the top of her head as an excuse to sit himself up. “There’s probably already a car waiting.” He swings his legs over the edge of the mattress and hears the springs groan behind him. Cynthia’s sitting up too. She shifts closer to him and brushes at his shoulder blades. She wants to hug him, John can tell, but neither of them really know where they are with each other anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think we ought to be divorced</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And, of course, John thinks she’s right. What does that mean for them? What does that mean while they still live under the same roof? Can they still touch one another, make one another laugh? Or, are they just meant to be sad and resentful?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He twists at the middle, looks over his shoulder at her and smiles: “You could pick me up on Friday?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She offers a broad smile back. “Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods. He feels something rise in his chest. It’s something to look forward to. No matter how this bloody week goes, he’ll have that to look forward to. “I’ll tell Peter I won’t need a car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leans forward and kisses the underside of his jaw and he’s glad for it. He’d wished she would all along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julian hardly moves when John goes in to see him. He just stares up at his Dad through sleepy eyes, groaning whenever John’s hands get too close to the parts of him that are ticklish. John imagines Mimi and George having to deal with something like this when he’d been Julian’s age, being woken up to go to a school he had no interest in being at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t see me for a week,” John gripes, but it hasn’t got any bite to it. Julian smiles, but he shuts his eyes and John imagines if he were a few years older, he’d have a few witty things to say back to that. Something flippant and too funny to be taken cruelly. “Alright, you sodding Sleeping Beauty, I’ll call you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julian nods and stretches his arms out towards him. John knows he’s meant to hug him. John marvels at how small he still is. He feels feather-light, like John could break him if he isn’t careful. He ruffles Julian’s hair as he pulls away, drags his fingers down Julian’s face just to annoy him, then he’s off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels that early morning sadness start to creep back in as soon as he pulls Julian’s bedroom door shut behind him. He realizes he doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to do the film. But he still doesn’t want to go to India, and he doesn’t want to crawl back into bed and let this blackness clouding over him take over completely. So, he steps outside, finds a car waiting and clambers into the backseat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rich is a few minutes late when they arrive at his and Mo’s place. “Sorry, fellas,” he mutters as he climbs in next to John. “I didn’t think you’d actually be on time,” he says to John. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles and says: “Someone’s got to take the film seriously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, aye,” Rich says, rolling his eyes. “Remind me to ask you how you’re feeling about it tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John jabs his elbow into Ringo’s ribs, still smiling, before they both look out their own windows. It’s a new day for all of them, they’re just trying to make the most of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George is already there, where the tour bus is meant to pick the three of them up, when John and Ringo arrive. He’s sitting on the curb, legs crossed at the ankles, and he’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s hardly even morning yet. He’s meditating, John knows, his eyes are shut behind those sunnies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Ringo suddenly muses next to him. John looks up and sees that Rich is watching George too. “I’ve found the Wales stuff really helpful with everything that’s going on.” John nods. He, frankly, hasn’t thought about it much. In fact, he’s been keeping the existence of Bangor, Wales out of his head entirely. “Have you tried any of his lessons?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs, clasping his hands together. “Not really.” Ringo smiles sympathetically. “I get too in my head about it,” John offers, because he isn’t willing to say he thinks the whole thing is shite. It’s working for his friends, maybe eventually, it would work for him too. “I’m sure it must work -- I’m sure there must be some kind of calm or, peace, or whatever, on the other side, but… I don’t know how to get through all the noise right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you keep up with it?” John sighs; it’s annoyed and punctuated. Rings must read it because he turns away and looks back out his window. Ringo doesn’t understand; he doesn’t understand all that Brian meant to him, he doesn’t understand that grief has always taken him over, he doesn’t understand that keeping quiet and looking in on himself is a fuckin’ death sentence. He doesn’t understand that John doesn’t need to be told how to lose someone, he’s had plenty of practice. “I’m just saying,” Ringo mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” John snaps. “I’ll keep up with it, Rings. Is that good for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, what’s the bloody alternative? Meditating or popping pills?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The car goes cold as ice. Ringo matches his stare, matches his anger, and then John thinks he must realize that, the same way they’d let Paul have </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mystery Tour</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Ringo needs to let John have his anger too. And maybe John does need  to have it; maybe he needs his anger to get through any of this. Because he’d woken up thinking of Brian smiling and kissing him, but he’d also thought of him drinking and dying alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those are your only options?” Ringo mumbles. He doesn’t add: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you realize how fucked up that is?</span>
  </em>
  <span> but John hears it anyway. And he hates it. He hates the fucked-up bits of himself: the needy parts, the raging parts, the hopelessly self-loathing part, but he realizes that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, those are his two options. Always had been, always will be. Paul had offered a third option: </span>
  <em>
    <span>work</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but John realizes that isn’t how he’ll get through this either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo climbs out of the car before John can tell him that he’s sorry, but maybe that’s a good thing, because he wouldn’t have meant it. Not yet, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul’s sitting with some blonde bird when the three of them climb onto the bus. There are empty seats waiting for them, but John sits with George because he thinks some of that stillness and amity might be good for his soul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John remembers being in Hamburg, in the flat that Stuart had shared with Astrid before he’d died. He remembers being there with George standing next to him, behind him, all around him. Keeping something between him and the harshness of the world around them. He thinks of Germany and falls asleep with his head on George’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Work is exhausting. And not in a good way. It makes him bristle and irritable. He watches Paul chat with a few of the cameramen about the next day’s work and John wonders: how is he not tired? John wants nothing more than to just go to bed, but Paul can’t stop thinking about tomorrow. As for John’s tomorrow, all he seems quite certain of is that he’ll go to bed sad this evening, and he’ll wake up even sadder in the morning. He watches Paul laugh with some of the crew and wonders when the last time he’d laughed today was. Somewhere deep down, that sadness boils into some sort of heavy resentment, simmering low, but there and ready if it ever gets the chance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul </span>
  <em>
    <span>works</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and that means he tells John what to do. He argues every point John makes until it’s beaten so hard that John just doesn’t care anymore. It isn’t some piece of high-brow art they’re making, no matter how badly Paul wants to think they are. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s his way, it’s his way, it’s his way</span>
  </em>
  <span>, John tells himself over and over and over, and hones that anger, thinking: </span>
  <em>
    <span>and this is my way</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Paul would overstep eventually, and John would get to use this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He calls Cyn from his room in the hotel and she’s as glad to hear from him as he is to hear from her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mother is driving me crazy,” Cynthia mutters into the receiver. John can hear her dragging the telephone somewhere for a little more privacy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mine too,” John says. “Paul,” he clarifies when Cynthia doesn’t answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” she says, giggling, so John giggles back. He tucks this moment away; it’s what he’ll remember when he asks himself again: </span>
  <em>
    <span>when was the last time you laughed?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Long day then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hums in agreement. “I think I might hate making films,” he says bemusedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I might hate it when you make films,” she counters. John laughs again, thinks of Almeria. They’d shared a few conversations just like this one: Cynthia, annoyed that her mother was being overbearing with Julian, and John, alone on a film set that moved too slowly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s the kid?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s alright,” Cyn says with a sigh. “One of your little visitors today had a younger brother about his age. I think he liked that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can send the girls away if I’m not there,” John tells her, not for the first time.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re harmless,” she says, and John knows she’s right. “I invited the boy back tomorrow, so we’ll see what happens there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take some snaps for me?” John asks and Cynthia tells him she will. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both go quiet. John listens to Cyn tidy up whatever space she’s in, and she listens to him climb into bed and switch on the tele. He sets his head back against the headboard and sighs into the receiver. Cyn tsks, knows when something’s wrong, so she asks: “Does it still feel right to be working?” John doesn’t know. “Is it too much too fast?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” he admits, slipping his glasses off and shutting his eyes to the bright overhead lights. “I feel angry when I don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At Paul,” John says with a sigh. “I know it’s just his way of working things out, but it’s not my way. And I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be angry about it, but it just sort of happens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you said something cruel to him?” she asks to the resignation in his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he supplies. “But I might.” He thinks of Ringo and realizes he’s already done what he’s afraid of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then at least you’re catching it this time around,” she tells him. He supposes she’s right. He thinks of all the horrible things he’d said without thinking to his friends after Julia was killed. After Stuart, too. He wants to be better for Brian. He wants to be better for Julia and Stuart too. “You know,” she says softly. “He’s probably quite a bit annoyed with you too.” John sighs, allowing that. “It’s nobody’s fault you’re different. You should talk to him about it. Make sure he knows it’s all just about shot nerves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never been so good at the talking bit,” John tells her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she agrees. “I’d just hate to see you two fall out over something so sad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard; feels the emptiness of a room without Brian or Paul and knows that she’s right. “Yeah,” he manages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you told George or Richie yet?” John feels himself go stiff. “About you and Brian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says, and he tries to imagine how that might go with either of them. He supposes he could have told Rich in the car, and George on the bus, but there were always too many prying ears. Too many strangers who might hear him and hate him on sight for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will, won’t you?” she asks gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think so,” John rasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really am happy for you, John,” she tells him. John feels his heart in this throat. “I think it’s a very brave thing you’re doing. I don’t think I ever said that to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t have to,” he says graciously. “Cyn, I love you,” he says, and he means it like he’d meant it when he was eighteen. He means it the way he’d meant it to Brian: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you saved my life</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And maybe he doesn’t mean it like a husband, and maybe she doesn’t either, but she says: “I love you too,” and he knows it to be true, and he knows it’s still the most powerful word he knows and that it will always be enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees Brian when he falls asleep. The Brian in his dream doesn’t speak, but John sees his smile lying in the bed next to him. And it isn’t this bed in this hotel, it’s Brian’s bed in London, the one always splashed in sunlight through sheer curtains. John opens his eyes in the morning and there’s an unused pillow next to him. A bed only half-rumpled. John feels something grab a hold of his heart and it won’t let go.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s downstairs early for breakfast, but there seems to be someone always around. He sits down and there’s a cup of tea set out for him almost immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ta, madam,” he mutters up to the older woman standing over his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s too early,” she tells him. “You aren’t ready to face the day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John grins up at her from behind his glasses; he must look as exhausted as he feels. “No,” he says, shaking his head ruefully. “And yet it’s a new day anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles down at him so kindly that John thinks he wants to ask her if she can make the days stop. Can she make it so everything stops so he can build himself back up, and then carry on as though nothing’s happened? She pats his shoulder and heads back towards the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he even takes his first sip of tea, Paul appears in the doorway to the canteen. He scans the large room and pauses when he sees John. John sees him glance down at his watch and then back up at John quizzically. John just shrugs and that’s enough for Paul to join him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couldn’t sleep?” Paul asks as he pulls his chair back in under the table. He peers into John’s teacup to see if it’s up to his standards before he gestures to one of the waitresses for a cup of his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Slept fine,” John tells him. “Just woke up early.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not like you,” Paul observes with a kind grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m turning a new leaf,” John gripes back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul leans back in his seat, slightly dejected. He knows John won’t let him in if he just keeps asking, so he decides to admit: “I couldn’t sleep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John glances at him, finally sees the way that Paul’s hair is still slightly mussed, that his eyes are bloodshot and not just because he’d probably woken up and rolled a joint before even getting out of bed. “You’ve gotta learn to shut your brain off, Macca,” he scolds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’d be too dark in there,” Paul says and he smiles, but John knows he means it. John suddenly wants to ask: </span>
  <em>
    <span>what are we doing?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Why are they here, making this film? Why aren’t they at home, falling apart, and making music about it? But he doesn’t, so Paul fills the silence around them with: “My Dad is gonna join us tomorrow. Mikey too, maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds nice,” John says and wishes it all didn’t taste so bitter on his tongue. Paul looks like he wishes the same thing. He’s dejected again, put off by John’s attitude, when all he wants to do is make everything appear alright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look,” John shuts him down. “I’m sorry, alright? I woke up in a piss-poor mood --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll turn it on for the film,” John tells him. Paul goes stoic. He swallows and then looks pointedly out across the canteen. It’s enough that John realizes Paul must know he actually means: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t want to be here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Paul retreats further in himself. He gets too into his head, then John sees that he looks as guilty as he’d sounded on the phone that night they’d all come back from Wales. “We all agreed to this, Paul,” John tells him, finally deciding he wants to try making this easier rather than harder. “You aren’t forcing anybody to do anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Paul answers sarcastically. He takes a deep breath and laments: “Where’s that bloody tea?” It’s so unlike Paul, things have shifted so dramatically, that John suddenly realizes that he doesn’t know how to make this easier. For all he could try, he doesn’t know how to make this better. This isn’t the version of Paul he knows. He thinks he must not be the version of himself that Paul knows either. Brian had left them all strangers, wading through the deep, dark space he left behind. John realizes the room is empty around him. No Brian and no Paul, and he doesn’t know where Paul’s gone. He feels his body start to shake with it. He sets his tea cup down and it clatters Paul back into reality. He glances back at John, sees that he’s gone stiff with nerves, that he’s giving the flimsy linoleum table the thousand-yard stare. “Are you alright?” Paul asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t feel well,” John manages. He thinks he means to stand, but his body isn’t listening. He doesn’t want to be next to this version of Paul. He doesn’t want to be seen by anyone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He doesn’t want to be here.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He hears Paul mumbling something to him, but he feels so far from human, that he can’t even understand the words he’s known his whole life. “Hey, here,” he finally hears Paul say and he realizes he’s holding out a lit cigarette for him. He takes it graciously, taking a long drag, and thinks the way it burns down his throat ought to make him feel rooted in place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe you should stay in today,” Paul says gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” John answers, picturing the version of himself that had gone off to India, the version of himself losing his own existence to oneness and the universe, alone with his thoughts. “I’m alright,” he manages to add. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re sure?” Paul asks, and John suddenly feels the way that Paul’s hand is at the back of his neck, massaging against tense pressure points on his shoulders. John just nods because he doesn’t trust the sound of his own voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s tea finally set down in front of Paul, the waitress awkwardly aware of the way that they’re touching, of the fact that she’s interrupting something she won’t understand. “Thank you,” Paul says up to her and John can’t even look. “And another for my friend,” he adds without even having asked, but John knows he needs another cup desperately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” John says when the woman’s shoes sound far enough away that he knows she won’t be able to hear how small he’s become. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, and makes it all sound so simple when he says: “Of course,” because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Of course it would always be this, the two of them, trapped in a moment nobody on the outside could ever understand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On their third day, John wakes up with an apology on his lips and he thinks that must be progress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits down next to Ringo at lunch, when they both finally have a moment. Rings looks up at him uneasily. They haven’t spoken much since their Monday morning drive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I join you?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You already have, haven’t you?” Ringo drawls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John allows with a smile. Ringo smiles back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath, wishes the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span> came easier to him. He looks down at his hands, folds them together, takes them apart, and back again. Ringo watches him closely, looks down at John’s hands in his lap and shifts closer. “Spit it out, son,” he tells him, nudging him with a soft elbow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry for what I said in the car,” John says, having listened entirely, he spits it out. “About popping pills, it wasn’t…” He doesn’t know what he means to say: it wasn’t what he meant? It had been. But it had also been insensitive and flippant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” Ringo urges. “You get like that sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John grimaces. “I wish I didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re all having a hard time,” Ringo allows. “It’s alright,” he repeats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods. It’s everything and so simple at the same time. John thinks of those parts of himself that he hates most. He’d shown them to Rich in the car that morning: his anger, his glibness, this dark disconnection from what it meant to want to be alive. He’d shown them all to Rich and here he was, telling John that it was all alright. He keeps his eyes down on his lap and swallows hard: “I really miss him,” he says, because he just feels too safe and seen here not to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rich sighs. He doesn’t have to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>me too</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but John knows it to be true. Instead, he tells him: “You should say it.” He leans forward, to catch John’s eyes. “When you think about him, and feel angry, you should say that instead.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John finds himself wishing he’d chosen to do this somewhere that they could be alone. He wants to take Ringo’s hand, cling to his clothes, anything. Here, in a room with a hundred other people, he just has to nod. It has to be enough that all he can say is: “Yeah…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of a hard time,” he hears Ringo say. He looks up and follows his gaze to where Paul is standing with a few of their electricians and the cinematographer. He’s gesturing wildly, trying to explain the image he has in his own head to people who are clearly telling him that it can’t be done. And they’re probably right. But Paul’s insistent, spurned on by the fact that if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>stops working</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if he sits down for lunch, his own heart would eat him alive. John catches two of them roll their eyes at one another behind Paul’s back, and it’s horrible to see, even though he knows that he and George have done the same thing before. “He needs to relax,” Ringo adds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll talk to him,” John says, already standing, practically already one step away from the table. The electricians see him coming and stand up a little straighter. “Oi, McCartney!” John calls out to him. “Put the lights down for a second and have something to eat.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah,” Paul mutters, waving at him dismissively. “We’re just about finished --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” John tells him. “Now, come on.” He reaches out for Paul’s sleeve before Paul snatches it away. Paul glares at him like a petulant child who thinks they’re too old to be reprimanded. “Thanks, fellas,” John says to the crew members around them. “We’ll figure it out when we’re back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s word is just as heavy as Paul’s and they’re the words they want to hear, so they disperse quickly, and John’s left with Paul; frozen in place: belittled and bewildered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were </span>
  <em>
    <span>working</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Paul tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re off the clock,” John tries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” John says. “Nobody wants to listen to us talk out of our arse when they aren’t being paid to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul scoffs, as if everything he’s ever said has been golden. He shakes his head and means to head towards the catering tables, but John clings to his elbow and ducks them out somewhere a little more private.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Paul demands once John stops them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” he asks. Paul gapes at him, expecting more. He shrugs helplessly when John doesn’t tack anything else on. “You’re getting a bit --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bit what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs because he realizes he hasn’t got the right words. He goes with: “A bit annoying, frankly,” and knows it’s come out all wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul sours in front of him. He sets his jaw and John knows he’s aching to give him the silent treatment, but there’s just too much anger in him right now to keep quiet. John sees himself in Paul. He suddenly realizes that being two sides of the same coin still meant you were melded together. “I’m annoying,” he says bitterly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what I mean,” John mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t,” Paul counters. John realizes that there are a lot of words that Paul might describe himself as right now, and annoying isn’t one of them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m working. I’m grieving. I’m trying</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People know how to do their jobs, Paul, just let us do our jobs,” John tells him, and he wonders how much they’re speaking in code. How much has this got to do with anyone other than themselves? Isn’t John just telling him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you lose Brian your way, and I’ll lose him my way</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know we’ve only got two bloody weeks to shoot this whole bleeding film, right?” Paul says. “We can’t afford to move slowly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John pokes back. “And whose schedule is that, Paul? If we go over, we go over --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Paul says with a quick shake of his head. John huffs impatiently, but lets Paul interrupt him. Ringo had allowed him the same thing before, he thinks he ought to return the favour. “We put out an album every six months, that’s what we do. We have to have the film to go with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have to do that anymore,” John urges. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, we do,” Paul snaps. “Yes, we do. Nothing’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>changed</span>
  </em>
  <span> --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It bloody has, Paul,” John bites back. He thinks of the way he’d dreamt of Brian smiling next to him, of Brian kissing him. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Everything’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> changed.” John sees something inside Paul deflate and he just wants to pounce on it. He wants to break it down to nothing so they can all just go home. “Brian is </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span> --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m aware of that fact,” Paul spits at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you?” Paul bristles; he stands a little taller and pushes his chest out towards John. “Because I can’t do what you do, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what do I do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Know it’s there and pretend it isn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul sets his jaw and John realizes this isn’t what he came here for. This isn’t the conversation they were meant to be having. John wonders how they got here; how he always brought people here with him. “I knew Brian too, you know,” Paul seethes. “You think you’re the only one who loved him -- or that you loved him best. That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>shite</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” John feels his eyes narrow, silently warning Paul not to go wherever he’s thinking of going. “He just wanted to kiss you.” Paul’s face drops as soon as he shuts his mouth. John’s brought him here; he’s made him say this. But Paul still hates himself for it. “John --” he stammers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget it, Paul,” John mutters. He feels Paul’s hand tug at his sleeve when he tries to go, probably hears him say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but John knows he can’t be here another minute; if he stays he’ll say something he doesn’t mean. He beelines through the dining room and feels like he can’t breathe until he’s safely outside, gulping in the fresh air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes himself out a cigarette and his fingers are barely working well enough to light it himself. He stuffs the cigarette back in his pocket and tears his glasses off his nose instead. He drags a hand down his face and sits down on the front steps of the restaurant. He wonders what he’ll dream of that night. Would it be Brian, or would it be a version of himself that hit this version of Paul? He glances across the car park, across the trucks and filming equipment. He catches a glimpse of George between the beds of two trucks. He’s sitting cross-legged in the field across the country road. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, John heads towards him, keeping himself small and quiet. He feels his own breaths fall into tandem with the deep, slow way George’s chest is rising and falling. He pauses next to him, wishes he could find some semblance of the relaxation George has got running through him right now. He fights the urge to try again for a cigarette, instead, he asks: “Can I get in on your prayer circle?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George laughs, glances up at John with one eye open and then glances down at the space in the grass next to him. John sits down, mirrors his friend and thinks: he’ll always get what he needs from George. He closes his eyes and listens to George next to him. He closes his eyes and tries to free his mind. He goes somewhere in the blackness behind his eyes, and he feels nothingness fade into contentment and stillness. And he sits there with it until that stillness fades back into nothingness and then the nothingness fades back into what makes John </span>
  <em>
    <span>John</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George is already sprawled out on his back, lazily smoking a cigarette. He glances at John once he sees he’s opened his eyes. “You went somewhere,” he observes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I felt very relaxed,” John allows, stretching the tight muscles in his neck. “You know, doing this on your lunch break isn’t the same as feeding yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t stand the film food,” George tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It makes me fat,” John agrees, which makes George roll his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look fine,” George drawls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John lays back in the grass now too. They’re close enough that when John locks his hands behind his head, his elbow knocks against George’s shoulder. He sighs, looks up at the grey, English clouds above them. It’s going to rain. The afternoon was only going to be more shit. He remembers doing this when he was a kid. Out in the back garden at Mendips. When Uncle George was still alive, he’d be able to hear the jazz records he’d play in the sitting room through the opened window. He remembers doing this when he was older, on a Spanish beach with Brian next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something on your mind, Johnny?” George hums next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything, all the time,” John answers. He reaches in his pocket for that cigarette back. He lights it and this time, his hands aren’t shaking. He takes a long drag and then hands it off to George. “Brian, mostly,” he allows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George takes a deep breath, sighs out a miserable, “yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks it must be the way he’d lost himself somewhere in George’s meditation, or maybe it’s the way John can’t stop thinking about him and George in Hamburg after Stuart, and the way that just thinking about it had made him feel secure enough to fall asleep against George on a public bus. Something makes him want to come alive, something makes him want to open up every part of himself for George to see and love unconditionally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I er --...” John starts. He holds his hand out, wordlessly demanding the cigarette back and George obliges him. George just stays quiet; he always knows when to do that. “I think I might have something to tell you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” John sees George sit up and shift closer to him. John closes his eyes and pretends he hasn’t noticed. He takes another long drag off their cigarette and doesn’t even think to pass it away. Not just yet. John opens his mouth to speak, then shoves the cigarette back between his lips instead. “Oh, go on, John,” George tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s enough to spur him on, so he blurts out: “You know, I’ve kissed a bloke or two in my life, right?” It isn’t what he means to say, it doesn’t have enough weight. But it’s all he can offer. George studies him a moment, then breaks out into a grin. John feels his chest constrict; George wouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “What the fuck you smiling like that for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George shakes his head. “I hate to say this, mate,” he says gently. “But you’ve told me this already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John blanches, then sits up and mirrors George. “I --... What? </span>
  <em>
    <span>When</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” George says with a shrug, still </span>
  <em>
    <span>grinning</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “‘62, I suppose. We were still in Germany.” And John thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> they were. The last time George had made him feel this way, they were in Germany. “You were off your head,” George tells him. “But you told me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then you just never brought it up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George shrugs. Asks him: “Why should I? It didn’t change anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>All these years</span>
  </em>
  <span>, John thinks. All these years, George had known and he’d never once treated him differently. He’d never once stopped loving him or looking to him. Nothing had changed, and that same nothing would continue to not change for the rest of their lives. Something catches in his throat and keeps him from saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> so instead, he mutters: “Fucking hell…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George reaches out and he touches his fingers to John’s knee and John finds what he’s been looking for. He feels George, everything good about the kid, he feels it all inside of him. He thinks of that great version of himself that followed George to India. He knows he isn’t ready to be that version of himself yet, but he thinks he’d like to get there. He thinks he’d like to close his eyes and see what George sees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As promised, Jim McCartney is there with Paul when George and John return after lunch. John thinks Paul looks soothed; he smiles a little easier. He puts down being a Beatle with his Dad, and he’s just Paul. It’s the version John remembers meeting for the first time in Woolton: slightly shy, obedient, and brimming with possibility. John thinks it’s probably good for him. He sullenly wishes Julia or Alfred had cared enough to stick around. He might be able to get through this, just like Paul will. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” John says when he reaches where Jim and Paul have cornered themselves off for lunch. “So, McCartney Sr. has been able to grace us with his presence.” John glances down at Paul, who goes quiet: he’s trapped somewhere between the version of himself with his father and the version of himself with John. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, John,” Jim says, his voice somehow clipped and kind at the same time. He shakes John’s hand, then hugs George. That isn’t lost on anyone. John tries to remember the last time he’d seen Jim McCartney and realizes it might have been Paul’s 21st birthday. And John hadn’t… Well, John hadn’t been at his best. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He suddenly sees Brian, that summer day in Liverpool. Their time in Spain still fresh on their minds, even though their tans had already begun to fade. Brian, horrified at what they’d done together had made John do. John had been pissed, almost beyond consciousness, but he remembers Brian’s face. He remembers Paul’s face too. They’d hated him. The both of them had hated him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul mentioned a promised tour of the sets and he and Jim slip off before John even realizes he’s missed the whole conversation around him. John nods his goodbyes and knows he’ll spend the rest of the afternoon chain smoking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere between finishing off his own pack and pestering Ringo for his, Jim McCartney finds him tucked away between takes. It’s some instinct, John doesn’t know which, because he’d never been particularly keen on being polite to parents, that makes him stub out his cigarette on the arm of his chair and sit up a little straighter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mind?” Jim asks, pointing at the empty seat next to him. John just shakes his head. He watches Jim lower himself down into the chair, sighing heavily. John tries to imagine what Alfred Lennon might look like now. He supposes it’s only been a few years since they’ve seen one another. John hopes he looks terrible. “Quite a circus you boys are putting on,” Jim observes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John snorts and watches as Jim gathers them both each a cigarette. John takes it happily. “It’s all your son’s idea,” John quips back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jim smiles and starts to nod. “Of the two, he’s the one I thought might go mad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John laughs. “There isn’t much of a line between madness and genius.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You suppose this is genius?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” John laughs, then shrugs. “Geniuses tend to do mad things, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jim regards him; John realizes he’s just called his son a genius. He supposes he’s also just called himself a genius too. He goes a bit red with it. “You boys have been quite successful,” he allows. “I have to give you that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bit better than a teacher’s salary, this,” John allows. Jim glowers at him, but there’s a smile there too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Jim allows. “But at what cost?” John thinks it must be a joke, but he’s asked himself that question too many times to count. He’d gotten it all, but it had cost him: privacy, his painting, the years that were meant to build him from a boy to a man. It had cost him dearly: he’d lost Stuart, then Brian along the way too. He’d never be able to estimate just how much they’d both meant to him in English pounds. Jim sighs, then, as though he’s read John’s mind, says: “I was sorry to hear about your friend.” John nods his thanks. “He seemed a very kind fellow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was,” John manages, because he knows Brian deserves him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>say something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s shaken Paul to his core,” Jim admits. John swallows hard. “I imagine it’s done the same to all of you.” Jim sighs when he sees that John can’t say anything back, when saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span> will give his loss too much weight. “I’m glad you have one another. The four of you,” Jim continues. He looks down, picks at something on the lapel of his jacket. “But mostly you and Paul.” John glances at him quickly, sees that Jim hasn’t been able to look back up at him yet. “I don’t know what you ever said or did, but he was lost without his mother.” John swallows hard. Pictures Paul again, back at the Woolton fete: slightly shy, obedient, and brimming with utter devastation. The sort that made your own father wonder if you would make it out alive. “Everything changed when he met you. And maybe not always for the better, but I saw my son again for the first time after you asked him to join your group.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was the music,” John tells him, though he knows it’s always been more than that. The music was the conduit; whatever it was that they passed between one another through it was the lifeblood that kept them both alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever it was,” Jim allows. “Whatever it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I’m glad you have it. I think it ought to make this easier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, he takes a long drag of his cigarette and runs his fingers across the burnt ash he’d left on the arm of his chair, brushing whatever had been left there onto the ground beneath them. “You’re probably right,” he says. “I’m glad to have him too,” he adds. He thinks of Paul tugging at his sleeve, saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the back of his head, as John tore through the lunch room, desperate to get away from him. He wonders why he always has to run away, when he’s never said anything more true: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m glad to have him.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He stands next to Paul, when things are quiet and slow. Neither of them say anything, but John sets his chin down on Paul’s shoulder. He sighs, so Paul sighs with him. He means to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but he doesn’t even need to put it in words. It passes between the two of them. And more. It’s an apology, an absolution, and an assimilation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John’s restless in bed their last few nights out. He rings back to Cynthia every night, even though he knows it might be too late for her. She waits up for the call either way. He wishes they could finish early enough for him to speak with Julian, but it never happens. He misses them. He hates Kenwood, but he misses it there too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will I still see you tomorrow?” John asks. He rolls onto his side, still clutching the telephone to his ear. He holds his breath, wonders if she’s forgotten their plan for her to pick him up off the coach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mother will put Jools to bed, you’ll still see me,” she tells him sweetly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” he mutters graciously. He peers across the empty bed and thinks he’d like to have brought her here with him. “How is she?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s my mother,” Cyn says with a laugh. John laughs too. “She’s fine,” she allows. “I have to remember she just loves me. And she loves Julian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John agrees, then: “Mr. Jim McCartney paid a visit the last two days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose Mimi will think I’ve snubbed her by not inviting her,” John muses. Cynthia giggles; she must be picturing Mimi Smith on board that yellow coach bus, next to women covered in body paint and men in gorilla costumes because that’s what John’s just done too. He laughs with her. “She’d hate it, but I can’t win with that woman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She just misses you,” Cyn defends. “She’ll never tell you, but she just wants to spend time with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John allows. “Sometimes I wish she’d just say it, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn sighs into the receiver, then says, “Yeah,” and John thinks she sounds sad. And maybe she should. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels</span>
  </em>
  <span> sad. He loves Mimi; when was the last time he’d told her? When had she last told him? She’d be gone one day too. Would he have told her by then? He thinks of all the time they’ve spent not speaking to one another. Her, ignoring him when he’d done or said something wrong. Him, locking himself up in his bedroom for days because he couldn’t bear to look at someone who didn’t understand him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Cyn says softly, bringing him back into the world. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> miss you,” she tells him, because she can tell he just needs to hear those words from somebody. “And Julian misses you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He batted at a few of your guitars,” she tells him and it makes John smile. “I hope that’s alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not using ‘em,” he says with a shrug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs and they fall into something uneasy. John sighs too because he knows what’s coming: “It’ll be hard for him to be with just one parent,” she says and John feels all the air in his lungs escape him. “You and I know that best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither of us is dying, Cyn,” he tells her harshly, but it doesn’t matter, because he knows what she means. He was a kid; all Julian would understand was that John was there, and then he wasn’t. Maybe he’d screw this whole separation up so horribly that Julian might wish he’d died instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just telling you he won’t understand,” she says back, angry the way she should be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to talk about this,” John tells her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to have to eventually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head. She can’t see him, but she doesn’t continue speaking. He feels himself retreating backward and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> it isn’t what an adult is meant to do, but it’s the only way he knows how to keep himself safe. He lights himself a cigarette and listens as Cynthia decides to follow his lead. She sighs into the receiver and instead of jumping headstrong into confrontation, she says: “We’ll be going to the shops tomorrow, can I bring you anything in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing special,” he mumbles. He doesn’t know where exactly home is anymore, but he wants to be there more than anything in the world. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyn is late to pick him the following night, so Ringo sits down with John on the side of the road to wait for her. He offers John a ride back in the car set up for him, but John’s sure she’s already left; he’d hate to pass her somewhere in the middle and get everything crossed. It’s getting dark, and it feels as though it might rain, but John doesn’t mind the wait. Ringo doesn’t seem to mind either, though his driver might. Neither of them can remember the last time things had felt so quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d decided: films drove John mad. There were always too many people, too many questions that needed answers, too many places to be all at once. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>One more week of this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks dismally. He isn’t sure he can stomach it. It’s mostly the music bits they’ve got left after this week. They’ve got that going for them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>At least</span>
  </em>
  <span> they’ll have the music. And that’s what he’d told Jim McCartney it was all about, hadn’t he? Maybe if he spent a week listening to Paul’s voice over speakers, and if Paul did the same with his, they’d be able to find themselves again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look exhausted, mate,” Rings tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like sleeping away from home,” John admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you might be in the wrong business,” Ringo tells him with a short laugh. John smiles back. If there’d been any other possible business for him, he’d think Ringo was right. Ringo offers him a cigarette, so he decides to give him honesty in return: “I think I got back into things too fast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo sighs. He nods, but keeps his eyes down on the gravel between his feet. “Yeah, me too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really thought this would work,” John laments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>works</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Ringo allows. “You just… Wake up one day and realize you’re through the worst of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not very helpful when you’re in the worst of it,” John grumbles around a mouthful of smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Ringo agrees. “It isn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d think I might know the pattern by now,” John muses. Ringo twists towards him, his blue eyes wide and sympathetic. John takes another long drag and shrugs helplessly. “You know, I know there’s another side to this. Somewhere.” Ringo nods. “And maybe that’s better, or that’s progress, because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> know that with my mother…That’s why I went so mad.” He hears Ringo take a deep breath and it makes him think he ought to stop, but he’s never spoken like this before. He’s never tried to put words to all this before; he’s only ever tried to run from it. “But it doesn’t matter. There’s another side, but right now, I don’t care if I find it. Or, if I don’t find it.” He shrugs again and drops his forehead into the palm of his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I reckon that’s just always going to be a part of it,” Ringo finally tells him. John realizes he must not know what else to say, but then he thinks: what else is there anyway? This would always be what losing someone feels like. This blackness, this lostness, it’s just always going to be a part of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, probably,” John allows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They smoke together quietly, though John sees that Ringo is fidgeting with something to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John?” he finally asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Richard?” John drawls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you and Brian in love with each other?” John feels his chest constrict so tightly that he chokes on the smoke in his mouth. He stares out over the country road even though he knows Ringo is looking right at him. “Is this different for you than it is for the rest of us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You all knew him, same as I did,” John mumbles, though it feels as untrue as it sounds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo sighs, he looks out over the country road now too, though John knows this conversation isn’t over. It’d go on forever, until John gives Rich a concrete answer, one Rich can go on to help him wrestle with. John realizes that’s all that this is about. It isn’t some sort of </span>
  <em>
    <span>gotcha!</span>
  </em>
  <span>-moment. He just wants to help. “If I’m right,” John hears Ringo mutter. “You shouldn’t hold onto all that yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was complicated,” John says around the lump in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you loved him,” Rich supplies for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John drops his chin down towards his chest. He crushes his cigarette against the gravel road between his feet and starts to nod. “Yeah,” he admits. “I loved him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo nods solemnly, then without any warning, he pulls John into a hug. John wraps his arms around Ringo’s back and just lets himself be held. It’s easy to let himself be looked after by people who love him. That’s how it had all started with Brian. Brian had broken down that wall himself. It hadn’t always been easy; being loved hadn’t always been easy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sees that Ringo’s eyes are glassy when they pull away. It’s enough to make John want to cry himself, so instead, he says: “You’re too soft for your own good, mate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo chuckles, gives him a light shove, then tells him: “You’re such a sad case, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John laughs, then wishes he hadn’t stubbed out his cigarette. His hands itch for something to do. As if Ringo can read him, he hands John the butt of his cigarette. It’s only got a few drags left on it, but John takes it all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a car horn not too far off and John recognizes Cyn’s car immediately. He sighs and stretches his legs out in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That her?” Ringo asks doing the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, lifting himself to his feet. He holds out his hand to help Ringo along. John bats at the gravel sticking to the seat of his pants, then does the same for Ringo with a laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” Ringo scolds him. “Cheeky!” Ringo gives him another hug before they go their separate ways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cynthia keeps her eyes low as John climbs into the passenger seat. She’s afraid he’ll be angry with her, he realizes. And he hates it. What sort of conditioning was this? Why had he ever made her feel this way? Because he knows she’s right to be afraid. He’s gotten angry over far less. It makes him feel sick. He can’t even look at her; all he sees is how horrible he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you waiting long?” she asks, putting the car in gear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he lies. “It’s alright. I had company.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Julian was fussy,” she allows. “You’ll apologize to Rich for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” John says, though he knows he won’t need to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wouldn’t go to sleep unless I was there,” she continues. John sees her shake her head at herself out of the corner of his eye. He thinks she might be close to crying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, Cyn,” he says. He turns to look at her and waits for her to glance his way long enough to add: “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Really.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> She takes a deep breath and nods. It isn’t what she’s used to, but she’ll take it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She joins him for a drink once they get home. Julian and her mother are both already asleep by the time they get back. Cyn hands him a glass of scotch and coke, then sits down next to him on the couch, nursing one of her own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” she ventures. “Was it all as bad as you made it out to be?” she asks from behind her glass. There’s a smile hidden there too, one that won’t let John get away with being a little melodramatic every now and then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so, yeah,” he mutters. He offers her a laugh so she knows she can smile back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you and Paul are…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re alright,” he says when she trails off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, then: “Did you talk to him? Like I said you should.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs. “Not really. We’ll get there though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods. Then, she starts to trace lines down the condensation on the side of her glass. She looks as though she’s got something important to say. John finds himself holding his breath, though he isn’t sure why. “You know,” she starts, and John thinks that their verbal tics have been rubbing off on one another. “I got to thinking, after you’d said that you weren’t very good at the talking part.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” John says slowly, narrowing his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I thought about the doctor I’d seen after Dad had passed,” she says; she says it quickly, like it might not hurt as much if she does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That therapist?” he asks, and he hates the way that word sounds on his tongue. He says it as though he has to spit it out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says, staunchly defensive of herself. “I hated it at the time, but I think it was really helpful. And I thought that you might find something like that helpful too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Talking to a therapist,” John deadpans. She sighs pointedly and takes a long pull of scotch. John watches her shake her head at him, sees her down nearly half her drink in one go. That gives John pause. He’s never seen her drink like that before. “What did you talk about?” he decides to ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flicker towards him. She takes him in, wondering where he might pounce and let her know this curiosity is all a joke. But she doesn’t seem to see that anywhere, so she shifts closer to him and sets her glass down on the coffee table in front of them. “I think it’s different for everyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m asking you, Cynthia Lennon, what did you talk about?” John presses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn sighs, then she shrugs, not even breathing a word about doctor-patient confidentiality. John doesn’t think he’d have that sort of self-control. “My mother, mostly.” John inhales sharply; he wonders what some psychologist hack would actually make him talk about if he saw them to talk about Brian. He’d have to rehash everything, just like Cynthia had about her mother. The thought alone makes him jumpy. “He just wanted to help me understand why I was so annoyed with her when it wasn’t her fault that Dad had died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you still get annoyed with her,” John says, but what he really means is: </span>
  <em>
    <span>see, it doesn’t work; don’t make me do this.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Cyn allows. “But I don’t always scream at her.” John averts his eyes downward. He knows she’s speaking as much about him as she is about herself. “Sometimes I do, but mostly, what he taught me just helps me </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk to her</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Admittedly, that sounds healthy. John chews on his bottom lip. He isn’t ready to say he’ll give this a go, but he thinks he’d be willing to try just about anything. “Do you think it made you better?” he asks, and the way his voice sounds makes his cheeks go red. It sounds so bloody infantile, so desperate, he forgets he’s nearly twenty-seven. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not in the way you’re hoping it might,” she offers gently. John looks up at her and she smiles at him so sweetly that it makes him shift closer to her. Their knees knock against one another. “I’m still someone who lost their father when they weren’t supposed to. But I think it made me better at being that person.” John nods solemnly. She’d been right, it isn’t the version of ‘better’ he’d been hoping for. Then, she reaches out and takes his hand. “The things that have happened to you haven’t made you a bad person,” she tells him. John swallows hard; he’d be hard-pressed to find someone who agrees with her. “You just don’t know what to do with it all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” he says hopefully, but he thinks, no good person deserves all this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sees it for the fundamental disagreement that it is. She smiles sadly and says: “Just tell me you’ll think about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll think about it,” John agrees. Cyn nods, but John isn’t sure she buys it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before they head off to bed, John sneaks in to see Julian. He’s fast asleep, clinging to one of the stuffed bears John had gotten him in Tokyo. There’s a nightlight still left on, it practically illuminates the whole room. Julian hates the dark as much as John had at his age. John remembers sleeping next to his mother on Blomfield Road. He’d cried and asked to leave a light on, but her boyfriend hadn’t allowed it. He’d clung to Julia, keeping his eyes shut tight, as if that darkness were any better. He’d clung to her until he fell asleep, night after night, until he’d just stopped asking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sits down on the edge of Julian’s mattress; the little boy stirs but not enough to open his eyes, then rolls onto his side, towards the way John’s weight is sagging the mattress. John reaches out and brushes some hair off of Julian’s forehead. He looks so much like him. With enough Cynthia in him that it makes John smile. It was no good, having two versions of himself running around. If Julian had enough Cynthia in him, he would come out alright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John wonders when it all started to go wrong. When had he started to become this person he didn’t even like to look at? He thinks of Alfred Lennon leaving him in Blackpool. And his mother, not ever quite being able to look at him the same after he’d chosen his father over her. He wonders who he’d be if he’d just let himself go to New Zealand, if he hadn’t run after his mother when he got scared that he’d made the wrong choice. He would have never seen Julia Stanley again. He wouldn’t have lost her. He wouldn’t have known Stuart either, or Brian. But, he supposes, the universe would find him, even in New Zealand. He’d deserved all this, growing up in Liverpool, he’d deserve it in Wellington too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks down at Julian, his hand still in the boy’s hair and realizes he wouldn’t have him if he’d gone to Wellington, either. Or Cynthia. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or Paul</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Julian looks so small, the way John might have once, and he realizes that Julian needs him. He’s known it all along, but it pierces through him. He needs the version of John that won’t hurt him, won’t leave him, won’t get angry with him. He needs his best version the way John had desperately needed the best versions of Julia and Alfred and Mimi, and he thinks, he doesn’t want to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>the reason</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He doesn’t want to be the reason that Julian ever feels this broken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees Julian, two weeks before his twenty-seventh birthday, as like and unlike his father then as he is now. He sees Julian happy and healthy and loved in a way that means he doesn’t even have to think about it. He wants to see this little boy grow up into that man, and it just strikes him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>he can make that happen</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of Cynthia, the better version of an angry, grieving young girl, and he wants to be the better version of himself too. He realizes that Brian hadn’t just wanted him to tell his friends who he liked to kiss, he wanted him to tell them that he loved them, that he trusted them, by always being truly and authentically this better version of himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go,” John tells Cynthia when he climbs into bed. She glances up at him, her eyes already pricked with tears. “I’ll find someone to talk to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, finds his hand under the blankets, then rolls towards him. She kisses him like he’s just saved her life. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Also, y’all, I just finished outlining Part Two of this and it has the very real possibility of running away from me. I’m thinking probably upwards of 20k, so pls be patient with me :( I’m hoping to sort it out within the next week and a half but I suppose we shall see!</p><p>Not sure if anybody would be interested in a Part 2a and Part 2b type situation.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. PART TWO</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, Lo and behold, I was right in saying I should never commit to how many parts a story will be, certainly never with a WIP. What is this, amateur hour? So I split up what was initially going to be one part into two. I actually found it works better emotionally as two separate parts anyway, so none of that Part 2a/Part 2b nonsense! </p><p>I was also maybe wrong in saying that things only get better from Part One on. This part is a bit of a roller coaster, I won’t lie. But, it’s saving grace is that it’s on the right track. Sometimes, you just have to go down a bit more before you start going up. </p><p>There are heavy therapy vibes here, so if that’s a little too much, I totally get it! Please be careful with yourselves! Also, I let John find a therapist that’s a good fit for him on his first try because, again, this is a fix-it! I want to make things easier, not harder! If anybody’s been in the trenches of trying to find a therapist that works for you, you probably know very well that finding the right one on your first try is like winning the lottery!</p><p>During John’s second session, there’s a good amount of detail in an anxiety attack, so again, be careful with yourselves in that one! Heavy, heavy self-blame vibes as well. The narration is obviously coming from the way John views the world, and there’s definitely some unhealthy thought processes going on, but that’s what I’m trying to get him out of! Good times!</p><p>There’s a relatively fleshed out John/OMC scene in this part. John goes out with Paul and Robert Fraser and meets someone. Its probably skippable-ish if that’s totally not your thing, but gets mentioned once or twice later on. It will also play a larger role in Part Three!</p><p>There's also a bit of gaslighting going on in John and Mimi's conversations together, not a devastating amount, but it's there, in case anyone has had issues with that before and might not feel comfortable reading it. </p><p>I think that's about all the forewarning this part needs! So, thank you to everyone who's read this far, and thank you to everyone who's subscribed and commented and left kudos! It really is super motivating, especially for a story that can sometimes feel really heavy to write.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>PART TWO.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a new notebook in his lap and it makes John feel like he’s back in school. He glances across the room around him: it’s unfamiliar, sterile in a warmish way. There’s a plant that looks like it’s been well taken care of in the corner. There are throw pillows on the couch he’d been instructed to sit on. He’d grabbed and clung onto one when he’d first arrived until his doctor had handed him this notebook, which at least gave him something to do with his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His doctor, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>therapist</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Dr. Murphy -- Mary, as she prefers to be called -- speaks with a heavy Irish accent and smiles a lot more than John thought she might. She doesn’t push him either. When they’d first sat opposite each other he’d mentioned Brian, that losing Brian had been the thing to make him seek this out. She’d just nodded, told him that they’d get to that, before she just asked simple questions: </span>
  <em>
    <span>what do you do for work? Are you married? Any children? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where did you grow up?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And John thinks, ah, here we go. “Liverpool,” he tells her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods and smiles. “I’ve heard horrible things.” John laughs, allows that. “At least you’re Northern; so north I can ignore the fact that you’re English.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not all English, you know,” he tells her with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With a name like Lennon, I should hope not. Are you one of us, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She means Irish, so John nods. “Oh, aye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” she says. “A Northern boy with Irish blood, living in London. You’ll be a tough one to crack.” John beams; that sounds like him. “Did your family come with you to London? Your parents.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his smile falter; Mary’s does too. “No,” he tells her coolly. “I was raised by an Auntie and London isn’t quite her scene,” he says. “Mum died when I was seventeen.” He’s of the age that there isn’t a need to mention a father. Plenty of boys with no fathers when the Second World War still loomed large. He can pretend that’s where he’d lost Freddie Lennon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” she tells him sincerely. He shrugs; he doesn’t know what to say. He never does, unless it’s to someone with similar life experiences. Almost without skipping a beat, she says: “And so you’ve been in London for a few years now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John says, gracious for the subject change. “About five years, I suppose --” Then, it strikes him. He’d set her right up: didn’t these doctors always want to dig into the horrible things that happened to you while your brain was still trying to become what it’s supposed to become. “Hang on,” he says. “Don’t you want to go back to that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back to what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My dead mother,” he deadpans. “Mummy issues, and all that,” he continues, really starting to feel the acid on his tongue. “I’ve probably got daddy issues too, if that’s more to your liking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She offers him a tight smile, then looks down at the clipboard in her lap. She very pointedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t write anything down</span>
  </em>
  <span> then sets it on the coffee table between them. “I’m not going to ask you to dwell on the things in your past,” she tells him patiently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels her calmness needle in under his skin. It makes him feel hot and irritable. He shifts in his seat and tugs at the collar of his shirt. But he makes his voice steady when he says: “I thought the point of psychology was looking at the things that happened in your past.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, then she scoots forward in her seat, uncrossing her legs. She sets her elbows down on her knees and leans towards him. She keeps her eyes on him. He wants to look away, but he thinks there’s something quite soothing in the way she seems to be able to take him all in and manage him easily. “There are some practices where your past is the most important thing,” she allows. “I think that’s true to psychiatrists who view their practice as an art form, or as some subject to perfect. When something is a subject to be studied, there’s a need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>explain.</span>
  </em>
  <span> To </span>
  <em>
    <span>support</span>
  </em>
  <span> with evidence.” Her eyes go soft and John swallows hard. He isn’t sure he can bear whatever she has to say. “But, John,” she says; she raises her eyebrows imploringly, hoping like hell that he’ll listen. “You are not my art form. You are not my subject.” He feels something grab hold of his lungs. He holds his breath and can’t let go. “You’re a human being that wants to be better.” He stutters on the air he’s holding onto. How had she seen him so clearly? How did she know that </span>
  <em>
    <span>being good</span>
  </em>
  <span> was everything to him? “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why</span>
  </em>
  <span> you are the way that you are doesn’t matter if I can’t give you the tools to live your life better going forward,” she tells him, then she pauses. She smiles at him sympathetically. “Do you understand?” John nods because he doesn’t trust himself to speak. “I want you to learn how to live well. Through your own thinking and your own evaluation of your self-worth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t got any,” John mumbles miserably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haven’t got any what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Self-worth.” At least he says it with a smile, no matter how deprecating it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t smile back at him. She just says: “So, that’s where we start.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he thinks he ought to be frightened, but he isn’t. He chews on the inside of his cheek and thinks, yesterday, he might have run away. He might have gotten up and left. But today, he just nods. He’ll start wherever she tells him to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a lot going on in here,” he tells her, ruffling his own fringe gently. “I’m not sure we’ll find an answer very soon-like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, she smiles back at him. Warm again, and reassuring. “We’ll take our time.” She sits up a little straighter and then points to the notebook in John’s lap. “Is there a negative emotion you think you feel the most of?” John glances down at the notebook, folds it open, and feels immediately overwhelmed by the empty pages. He shrugs helplessly. “Do you ever feel jealous?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apathetic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p><span>“Angry?” John feels himself go stiff with nerves. He keeps his eyes down on the lined pages in front of him and he can’t bring himself to say </span><em><span>yes</span></em><span>. Or, </span><em><span>all the time</span></em><span>, or </span><em><span>more than anything</span></em><span>. She knows she’s struck a chord. She holds a hand out to him; he can see her out the corner of his eye. “Can you hand me your book?” John does as he’s told. She begins to write on the first page. “You know,” she starts absently. “We’re led to believe that if we’re living our life well, if we’re good people, we should be happy, and that that must mean if we’re angry, then we aren’t living well, or that we’re bad people.” She glances up at him and sees that he’s hanging on every word.</span> <span>“But that isn’t what your anger is trying to tell you at all. Your anger is the part of you that doesn’t want to let you get hurt. Your anger is trying to tell you that you have a serious and important need that’s going unfulfilled.” She hands him back his notebook, still opened on the front page. She’s marked out a graph. One column is labelled: </span><em><span>Stressor</span></em><span> and the other: </span><em><span>Unfulfilled Need</span></em><span>. </span></p><p>
  <span>“Is this me homework?” he asks with a shy smile. </span>
</p><p><span>She smiles back; John decides he likes when he’s able to make her do that. “It’s an exercise,” she says, which John knows is just adult-code for homework. He smiles wider.</span> <span>“I want you to track the moments you feel angry. I want you to write down who or what is making you feel that way. And then I want you to stop and think about what it is you actually need.” He glances back down at the columns: </span><em><span>Stressor</span></em><span> and </span><em><span>Unfulfilled Need</span></em><span>. He realizes the word ‘anger’ isn’t written anywhere.</span></p><p>
  <span>“And what if I can’t figure it out?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She offers him a kind and simple shrug. “You don’t have to get it right every time. The point isn’t to necessarily get it right. The point is to teach you to control what you feel the most of. To, when you get angry, begin to ask yourself: ‘what do I need?’ rather than ‘why am I so horrible?’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard; he considers that, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. It seems so simple to hear laid out in front of him. Simple enough to try. “Right,” he mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you see what the next step in this might be?” she asks gently.  “Once your anger has shown you what it is you actually need?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John grimaces, he knows he’s right when he says: “Ask for it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles broadly. “That’s right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like asking people for things,” he admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John scoffs; he can’t hardly be the first bloke to tell her that. She must have seen sorry sods far worse off than him. “Because,” he blusters, then he trails off as his own reasoning nearly slips off his tongue. It feels pathetic now that it’s at the forefront, but he supposes saying it out loud is the whole point of being here. So he sighs, and goes for sincerity instead: “Because what if they don’t understand?” She smiles at him sadly. There’s a slight nod to her head that makes him think she might feel that way sometimes too, even though she’s bloody good at hiding it. He glances back down at his hands on his lap and goes further; goes for brutal honesty: “What if they don’t want to give it to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you believe you’ve surrounded yourself with people who aren’t willing to give you what you need?” she asks, and John sees Cynthia. He sees Cynthia and he knows that to be untrue. He sees Brian too, telling him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you have so many people who love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And then there’s Paul in his sitting room on Cavendish: </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever it is, it’s okay. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he tells her, and he believes it with everything he has. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leans towards him, looking just as fierce as he feels and she tells him: “Then don’t be afraid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John can feel Paul hovering somewhere over his left shoulder. He leans closer to the control board, away from Paul and away from George Martin next to him too. He closes his eyes and listens to the orchestral mix for </span>
  <em>
    <span>I Am the Walrus </span>
  </em>
  <span>that George had put together for him. It’s nearly there, John thinks, but there’s something still missing. He takes a deep breath and goes to speak, before he realizes he hasn’t got the vocabulary to tell George what he wants. Not like Paul has. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances to George, who’s watching him intently. He realizes that George thinks the song is finished. He looks up at Paul then, too, just as he and George finish sharing a look with one another. Paul thinks it’s finished too. He’s keen to get started on one of his own. John feels some black swirl start somewhere in his stomach. He shuts his mouth, sets his lips in a tight line, then tells George: “It’s nearly there.” Behind him, Paul sighs. “It needs something else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does it need?” George asks, gently, the way he always speaks to John about music. John realizes he does have some version of the right vocabulary, he just speaks like a five year old boy, while George Martin is a sophisticated music man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good, John,” Paul urges, but it’s less of a compliment and more of a hurry-up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it’s good,” John snaps. “That doesn’t mean it’s finished,” he tells them, letting them know that he’s caught them in their little secret language conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think it needs?” George asks again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John drops his forehead to his hand and sighs. He hasn’t got an answer for him, not a real one anyway. He takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. He suddenly realizes how long they’ve all been here. He’s exhausted. He’s still fried by his session with Dr. Murphy a few days earlier. He thinks of he and Paul alone at Cavendish after they’d decided to move forward with the film. John, disappearing into Paul’s chest, the both of them disappearing somewhere into green velvet. He thinks of the way he’d felt so lost and tethered all at once. Does the song make him feel that way? He can’t even remember. “Can we play it back again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George and Paul must look at one another again. Because George doesn’t play the song back and then John feels Paul’s hand on his shoulder. It doesn’t make him feel warm or reassured. It makes him feel jumpy and angry. He sits up a little straighter, already on the defensive, before Paul tells him: “We’ve got to move on, John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To one of yours, I reckon,” he seethes. He twists in his seat and looks up at Paul. Doesn’t he want to stay here? Doesn’t he want to stay in this moment where they’d gotten lost together? Can’t he just let John stay here?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t how I mean,” Paul mumbles, but John catches him. John catches him </span>
  <em>
    <span>roll his eyes</span>
  </em>
  <span> and it just makes him see red. “All I mean is we have a deadline, and we have to meet it --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, sod your fucking deadline,” John mutters, standing from his seat. He goes to his jacket, digs into the pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “You know,” he hears himself say before he can stop himself. “Nobody but Brian gave a shit about the bleeding deadlines.” Paul goes unreadably still in front of him. “You our new Brian now or something, Paul?” There’s a moment where Paul just stays unreadable and John thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>how can he pretend this doesn’t hurt?</span>
  </em>
  <span> How can he go on about business and deadlines when John’s just plain forgotten what the passage of time feels like. He’s stuck in this deep dark moment: between losing Brian and moving on from Brian. He’s stuck here, but the world is going on around him. It hasn’t stopped with him and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. He wants the world to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to just give him some time to figure this all out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Paul goes from unreadable to unbelievably sad. He looks away from John and shakes his head. “No,” he tells him. “I’m not.” And John feels like there’s something inside of him that just goes away. He realizes it’s the part of him that’s stayed shiny and protected all these years by the way Paul loves him. He realizes he’s cracked it and the thought of it being gone — this small part, the way Paul loves him — it makes him sick. He returns his attention back down to his jacket pocket, but he can’t see through the way his eyes have gone blurry behind his glasses. So, he gathers up the whole jacket instead. He tears out of the recording booth and as he slams the door shut behind him, he hears George tell Paul: “You’re right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And of course he is, or rather, of course John is </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. John courses through the back hallway of EMI and bursts through a door that leads him out into the back car park. He takes a few deep breaths and thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>why am I so horrible?</span>
  </em>
  <span> over and over and over again. He digs his hands into his pockets one last time and still comes up empty. He opens his jacket, stuffs his hand into the inner-breast pocket there and freezes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t a pack of ciggies, but he feels a strange sudden calm fall over him all the same. He gently tugs out the small notebook that Dr. Murphy had given him. He opens it up to the first page and sees the graph she’s marked for him. He blearily wonders if it’s too late. He’s already allowed his anger to do the damage, would there be a point in understanding it now? He sighs, decides he might as well fill it up with something, and sits down on the lip of the car park. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of Mimi, the night she’d come home from the hospital after Uncle George had died. He thinks of the way he’d held onto her and how she’d told him that there was no need for it. She’d taken him to the kitchen sink and put him to work doing the washing. He remembers crying against her for the brief moment she’d just let herself be held, and then not crying again, until he was much older, a Beatle, and the four of them had gotten too drunk during a hurricane in Key West. He’d always wished he’d cried more. He’d always wished he’d been allowed more time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door behind him opens and he knows it’s Paul without even turning to look at him. He shuts the notebook and stuffs it back in his pocket. “You writing a song about me?” Paul asks humorlessly, but it still makes John laugh; a short, dry laugh that isn’t really much of anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry for what I said,” John decides to begin with. The air goes electric between them. Paul doesn’t know what to say. John realizes that they haven’t offered many apologies to one another over the years. Or, at least, John hasn’t offered many to Paul. He hears Paul edge closer to him, but he won’t sit down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not trying to replace him, you know,” Paul says and John realizes just how much damage he’s actually done. He shakes his head at himself, laments: “I know you’re not,” and it’s enough for Paul to feel safe next to him. He sits down on the lip too, close enough that they’re shoulders are resting against one another. John heaves a great sigh, so Paul does too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to rush you,” Paul offers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks of what he’s written in his notebook. He knows Dr. Murphy had told him that he doesn’t need to ask for what he identifies as his unfulfilled need, not yet anyway, but with Paul next to him, touching him, he decides he wants to. “I just need time, Paul,” he says quietly. Paul leans in to hear him more closely. “I don’t move like you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul keeps his eyes down on the gravel at their feet, but he nods. He dips into his pocket for two cigarettes and hands one off to John. His gratitude is visceral, it tears right through him. “Yeah,” Paul allows. “I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I miss him,” John says, then stops short. He feels his throat close up and his mouth trembles around his cigarette. “I just want to miss him right. I don’t want to resent him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want that either,” Paul manages. He turns to look at John then, and somehow, John decides to look back. Their eyes lock, and John feels that part of him come back. That sweet, caring little part of him where Paul loves him unconditionally. “Hey,” Paul mutters, nudging John with a shy smile. “Do you want to come to mine? I’m having a few mates over, we might go out. You should come with us,” he offers. “I like to get my mind off things sometimes, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, John starts to nod. He can’t remember the last time he’s done something that hadn’t fit into one of three categories: work, therapy, feel sorry for yourself. He thinks that ‘having fun’ should probably make the list too at some point. He smiles and says, “yeah, alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They leave without saying goodbye to George Martin and John realizes that Paul must have called it a day. He’d been right to. He hadn’t been in any right space to be working. He’s two scotches in when he allows himself to admit that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, lounging in a living room with a drink in his hand, talking about art and music and the troubles of the world, is exactly what he needs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Robert Fraser; that’s who Paul had meant when he’d said he was having mates over. Robert Fraser and a few of his art gallery pals. It makes John feel like he’s back in Gambier Terrace with Stuart. There’s more than enough seating, but they all end up in a circle on the floor, passing a joint around amongst them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve finished your drink,” one of Robert’s friends observes. He’d been introduced as Jack. John glances down at his empty glass on the floor in front of him. “I’m having another,” he continues. “Would you like one?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would, yeah,” John answers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack gestures towards the kitchen, then lifts himself up off the floor; John knows he’s meant to go with him. John rests his hip up against Paul’s countertop and watches Jack get to work on their drinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not what I expected,” Jack tells him, filling his glass with a little more coke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re quite shy,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John doesn’t know why he feels the need to argue with him. He’s right, after all. He’s always thought of himself as quiet; granted there were a few years in the middle of his life where it became easier to be a loud-mouthed prick than to admit how sad and lonely he was. He lifts his drink to his lips instead, gulps down a mouthful and instead of starting a fight, he says: “That’s showbiz for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You put on a show even when you’re not on stage?” Jack asks coyly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t everybody?” Jack shrugs, allowing that that could be true. “You mean to tell me you don’t put on a bit of a show when you’re trying to sell your paintings to some daft nit who happens to have a gallery?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack laughs. “The only daft nit I sell my paintings to anymore is Robert,” he says. “But I suppose you’re right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The music is the music,” John tells him. “Being a Beatle is something else entirely.” Jack nods, smiling brightly back. “I’m quite quick, you see,” John allows with a roguish smile, which makes Jack laugh enough that John realizes just how close they are. He can feel Jack’s breath on his cheek. He doesn’t know why or where it comes from, but he finds himself stepping even slightly closer. “So I got labelled ‘the funny one’, and you’ve got to give the people what they want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should hope you do,” Jack supplies, looking him up and down. He thinks he ought to feel scrutinized, but he quite likes the way Jack looks at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John offers him another shy smile, then he clinks their glasses together, mutters, “thanks for the drink,” and he heads back into the sitting room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul and Robert are close to one another on the floor. They’re backed up against the sofa, Paul has one arm laid across the cushions behind Robert’s back. It reminds John of what he’d been like taking birds out to the pictures back in Liverpool. He always quite liked the way that Paul looked when he was trying to woo someone. His eyes wide and honest, his lips always slightly parted. On the ready with a smile, or something a little more demanding. Except he isn’t trying to woo Robert, not really. He just looks comfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jacky, I want to go out!” Robert announces and John realizes that Jack’s followed him quite closely. “Let’s go out, shall we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, Bob,” Jack placates. “Where would you like to go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alibi,” Robert tells him, then he glances at Paul for approval. Paul simply shrugs, then glances to John. He’s never been. He means to say he’s up for whatever, then Robert pipes up: “It’s a queer bar, John, you alright with that?” He says it in a way that makes John feel like he’s being laughed at, like he’s some square that might get squicked out by seeing two blokes kissing. “Whatever you’re imagining,” Robert presses, he glances at Paul, hoping to share a smile, but Paul doesn’t offer him one. “I assure you it’s not that bad, right, Paul?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul goes pink next to him. He doesn’t look ashamed, but he does look caught in an omission. He’s never told John he’s been to Alibi. He’s never told John that he’s been to any queer bar without the rest of them, without Brian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been to queer bars, Bob,” John tells him. The room seems to go a bit cold. Paul looks as though he’s readying himself to stop a fight. John’s bristled, and maybe he does want to start one, but he looks at Paul then to Jack, who both seem to be giving him a look that says: </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s just Bob being Bob</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so he goes with, “Alibi’s good,” instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robert buys him a drink once they arrive and it’s as much of a truce as he needs. He accepts it, forgives and forgets. He turns at the bar and looks out over the sea of people. Paul and Jack had gone off to find them a table, Robert had found someone he knows, so that left John alone. He didn’t mind it. He watches the smiling faces of the men around him. A few recognize him, but nobody seems to breathe a word of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> here,” a voice next to him says. John turns towards it to see a smiling Pete Townshend. John immediately finds himself smiling back; he hasn’t seen Pete since The Who’s show at Brian’s theatre in January. “I saw Paul trying to find a table and he mentioned you’d come with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hiya, mate,” John says, clapping his hand around the back of Pete’s shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete pulls him into a hug and then seems to give him a once-over. He smiles at him sympathetically and John knows where this is going. Pete had caught John and Brian holding hands that night at Saville Theatre. After the show, he’d come to thank Brian and he’d seen them sitting too close to one another on the sofa in Brian’s back office, their hands clasped together between them. But Pete hadn’t been afraid of it. He’d even caught John later that night, after they’d gone out to some club to celebrate, and told him that he liked holding hands with men sometimes too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard about Brian,” Pete tells him solemnly. “I’m so sorry, man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John just shrugs, hiding himself behind taking another long pull of scotch. He tries to remember that tonight is meant to be about ‘having fun’; he was veering dangerously close to ‘feeling sorry for yourself’. “Appreciate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete silently gestures to the bartender for two more drinks. John knows that one is meant for him. Then, Pete turns back towards him, a sly smile on his face. “So, you’re coming to Alibi now,” he observes. “Am I reading too much into this, or --...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John laughs and admits: “You aren’t reading too much into it, no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete beams at him; John feels Pete’s hand at his elbow. “That’s brilliant,” Pete tells him and John sees that he genuinely means it. “And you know, people in these places are really great about it.” John nods, looks back out at the crowd. Nobody seems to care that John Lennon is talking to Pete Townshend in a gay bar. “Nobody’s looking for a quick fix by selling some story to the newspapers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good, that,” John allows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, there are two shot glasses in front of them. Still smiling wide, Pete offers him one. “To coming out and coming on,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods in agreement, downs whatever he’s been given and he’s too pleased to be here with Pete to care it had been tequila. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t sure how long the two of them stay there at the bar. There seems to be an endless supply of drinks being handed their way and John isn’t sure who’s paying for them. Somewhere after his fourth, John glances up and sees Robert’s friend, Jack, making his way towards the toilets. John stands up a little straighter, watches his long hair bob through the crowd. He’s smoking a cigarette casually, smiling to the people he shifts behind and between. He throws a glance over his shoulder, scans the bar, then finds John -- finds him </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Going red with it, John looks away for a moment. When he glances back out across the club, Jack is still watching him, smiling knowingly. Then, pretending to be shy in a way that makes John want to follow him, he turns around and continues through the throng of people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks the way he moves his hips is enough of an invitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be right back,” he mutters to Pete, and he heads out over the dance floor before Pete can answer him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s lagged enough behind that once he gets to the loo, Jack is already at the sink, washing his hands. He glances up at John’s reflection and breaks into a grin. He’s quite arresting, John realizes. And maybe it’s the extra scotch and tequila in his belly, but he quite likes the way he smiles. He feels himself go a bit hot under the collar when he thinks that Jack might know what he’s thinking. Slowly, Jack shuts the water off and turns towards John, his arms crossed over his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And here I thought maybe you’d left,” Jack says, his voice is smooth with the scotch he’s had too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Found a friend,” John manages, though his words sound like they catch in his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jack doesn’t allow him to get away with it. He saunters towards John, looking him up and down. “Oh,” he says, hamming up his disappointment, but there’s some truth to it too, which makes something pool in the base of John’s stomach. “What kind of friend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John waits until Jack’s a little closer; lets his voice go low when he tells him: “Not the sort you’re worried about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Jack hums; he’s smiling and John thinks he sounds so deeply satisfied by that answer that he finds himself stepping slightly backward so he’s back up against the wall, inviting Jack to keep closing the space between them until their bodies are pressed up against one another with nowhere to go. When they’re nearly chest to chest, John sees the way Jack’s eyes flutter down to his lips and then back upward. He means to fill the space between them, lock themselves in a kiss, but then someone walks into the toilets; they don’t seem to mind what they’ve just interrupted, but it’s enough for John to ease Jack away from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack looks down at the hand now on his chest, making him keep his distance, then back up at John quizzically. “Nobody really cares what they see in here,” Jack assures him, but John thinks his nerves must be palpable because Jack suddenly looks nervous too. “Have I overstepped?” he asks. He puts some more space between them, enough that John can’t reach out and touch him anymore, and John realizes he’s afraid. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I thought you were --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John doesn’t know what exactly he means to say: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I thought you were flirting with me</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>I thought you were queer</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Either way, the answer remains the same: “I am,” John tells him, just so he’ll stop feeling so frightened. John hates to see it on somebody else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack studies him a moment, then seems to come to a conclusion. Slowly, he steps forward again, but John notices that his eyes aren’t quite so dark and wanting. He takes one of John’s hands in his, interlocks their fingers and lifts them up to kiss the back of John’s hand. “You ever done this before?” Jack asks him and John feels himself go hot with embarrassment. Snogging in the men’s toilets had never really been Brian’s style, and he’d hardly even known that this was the sort of place men like him could meet one another back in his Liverpool days. Jack reaches out and tugs on the collar of John’s shirt. John knows that Jack still wants to kiss him, but he's keeping himself from it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really,” John admits. Then he thinks of Hamburg and the Reeperbahn. Wincing, he adds: “I mean, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I just…” He looks up at Jack, hoping he might interrupt him, but he doesn’t. He sets his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes. If he hadn’t had so much to drink, he wouldn’t say it, but he decides to tell Jack: “I’ve never actually… </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone all the way</span>
  </em>
  <span>… with a bloke, as it were.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re nervous,” Jack allows kindly. John sighs, nods, then Jack adds: “It’s alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack’s eyes skirt down to his chest. He toys with the buttons of John’s shirt, deliberately not opening them up and says: “You should take your time.” He places a chaste kiss to the corner of John’s mouth, then their bodies are suddenly no longer touching. Jack gives him space, but smiles in a way that lets John know he’ll be around whenever John decides to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span> taking his time. “You gonna join us?” Jack asks, meaning to head for the exit. He watches John over his shoulder, hoping John will tell him </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to this, to more, eventually too. “Or are you staying with your friend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll join you,” John decides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stays at Jack’s side as they make their way through the club, back towards whatever table he and Paul had found them at the beginning of the evening. Blanketed by bodies and music, John feels Jack reach out and take his hand wordlessly, guiding him across the dance floor. It feels like it could be significant, so John decides it should be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John doesn’t think Paul had noticed the way they were holding hands as they sat down opposite he and Robert, but he must have, because as soon as the taxi drops them both off at Cavendish, Paul asks: “Did you like that bloke?” There aren’t any girls waiting at Paul’s gate and John’s glad for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who, Jack?” John asks, taking Paul’s keys from him; he’d been peering down at the small ring through double-vision. John can’t remember the last time that they’d gone out together and Paul had come home more loaded than him. “Yeah, he was alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw the two of you holding hands,” Paul observes. He leans himself up against the doorjamb while John keys them inside. He spills into the front entranceway as soon as John gets the door open. Somewhere deeper in the house, John hears Martha jump off of whatever bed she’d curled up in and he knows she’s coming bounding towards them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was a nice,” John says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you gonna do that now?” Paul asks, and John thinks that if Paul weren’t so drunk, he’d think he was accusing him of something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold hands with men in clubs,” Paul explains. He shuts his eyes and John realizes that what he’s meaning to say is coming out all wrong. He shakes his head, then Martha is at his feet, rubbing her nose against his dress pants. He crouches down to her level, lets her kiss his face. “Martha,” he says to her. “Will you explain to John what I mean by that? I’ve had too much to drink,” he slurs. “I’m afraid it’s coming out all rotten-like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John laughs and watches as Paul lowers himself down onto his haunches and lets Martha crawl right into his lap. He sits down, right there on the floor, next to them and just waits for Paul to elaborate. He reaches out, gives Martha’s belly a few scratches, and just waits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just mean,” Paul tries again. “I’d like it if you felt you could do that sort of thing, around me, around whoever, and that nobody would care,” he says, and John’s so glad he hadn’t immediately hopped on the defensive. He feels something warm in his middle, and slowly, it fills him up, out to his fingertips. John just nods because he doesn’t know how to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I’d be happy if you felt that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel that way,” John confirms. Paul looks up at him through his eyelashes, smiling in a shy way that makes him look as young as he had when they’d first met. He nods his approval, then lays a soft kiss to Martha’s nose, but John feels as though it were really meant for him. “I’ve told George and Rings too, by the way,” he decides to say. Paul sighs, relief heavy on his face. “I’d told George already. Can you believe it? Back when we were still at the Top Ten. I must have been so doped up on prellies and drinking beer for breakfast,” he says with a laugh. He looks up at Paul to share a smile, but sees that Paul is looking pointedly elsewhere. Something hangs heavy over him. Something like dawning realization. “I’d told you too, hadn’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chewing on his lip, Paul chastises him: “John, come now —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When?” John demands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul sighs, keeps his eyes down on the tangles in Martha’s fur. “Paris,” he admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels his heart freeze and break in two. He can’t even breathe. He thinks of himself in Paris, there, in a new city for his twenty-first birthday. He remembers sitting out with Paul on their hotel balcony over candlelight. The fire painted everything golden. He remembers watching Paul smoking a cigarette and wondering why he’d brought Paul here. Why hadn’t he brought Stuart? Or, Cynthia. He remembers seeing the flickering Parisian street lamps painting the side of Paul’s face like a halo and realizing: </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s because I love him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “What else did I tell you?” he asks, his voice small and horrified. He’s so afraid he’ll realize he’s taken six years to ruin the best relationship he’s ever had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Paul promises him; and it looks like he doesn’t know why he needs to be so urgent so John believes him. John finally exhales and feels weak with it. “Nothing,” Paul repeats. He leans forward, tries to catch John’s eye. When he can’t, he shoos Martha off his lap and scoots close enough to John so he can put an arm around his shoulders. “Hey,” he whispers. He lays his head on John’s shoulder. He gives John a squeeze when he lets out another shuddering breath. “Whatever you think’s happened hasn’t,” he urges. “I wouldn’t lie to you,” he adds and John finds himself nodding. He thinks that must be true. In this moment, folded in on the floor like young boys, with Martha at their feet, John can’t think of a single lie that Paul’s ever told him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Murphy peers over what he’s written into his notebook over the past two weeks. She’s reading over everything intently, but she keeps giving John reassuring nods, urging him on while he describes how it all made him feel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then that Paul one,” he says, leaning forward, he points vaguely somewhere near the top of the page. “That first one with the star next to it. I put the star there because I’d figured out why I was really angry, what I wasn’t getting, you know, and then I just thought, sod it, and I asked him for it.” That gives her pause. She looks as though she wants to put the notebook down entirely. “And he just did it, you know. He saw that I needed something and he gave it to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s very good,” she tells him and he finds himself nodding along with her. Then, she points down at another log and says: “This one doesn’t have a need next to it. Do you think we could try to work it out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which one?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It just says ‘flubbed tape’,” she says with a genuine shrug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, that one was… It was nothing, really. That’s why I barely even wrote anything down. I thought I was angry about it, but I wasn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jools, my kid, he taped over some recording I’d made,” he explains. “He didn’t know what he was doing, he just found the recorder and was pressing buttons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was the recording special to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, John thinks, but he just shrugs instead. “It was just a work thing,” he allows; she knows he means it was a song, she knows that that must mean something. “I worked it back out on the piano and it was fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were angry enough to write it down,” she observes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he allows. “But I was just mad at a kid, you know? </span>
  <em>
    <span>My</span>
  </em>
  <span> son. I wrote it down, then I just thought, what if I’ve made him cry? You know? Or, what if he remembers this moment like I remember some of the things my Auntie said to me?” He shrugs. “So, why was I there, thinking about what </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> needed, you know? It didn’t matter. With him, I don’t want it to matter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’d needed something from you,” she supplies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” John allows. “He was just curious about the thing, that’s all. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> what was on it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles at him, proud as a parent, then she closes the notebook and hands it back to him. “Do you feel like this exercise is helping you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so,” he mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I want you to keep doing it,” she tells him. He takes the notebook from her, recognizes it as the lifeline it actually is, and nods. “How does your upcoming week look? Anything you think you may need help preparing for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs. “Er…” he mutters. It’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span> week, he realizes. “We have that memorial for Brian late in the week,” he allows. He finds himself chewing on the corner of his thumbnail. He knows she must have noticed, but he doesn’t care. He isn’t so far along in the treatment that he thinks he can’t still have a few nervous tics. “I’m meant to go up to Liverpool to meet with his family, just to see if there’s anything they need us to do down here.” He shrugs helplessly. He thinks that there’s plenty to unpack there. He thinks: is there anything out there that might help someone prepare for something like this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our grief isn’t a linear process,” she tells him, and it’s as much on-subject as it is off. John sighs heavily, realizing that what she means to say is: </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There isn’t anything to prepare for something like this. “There will be moments when you feel like you’re back at the beginning,” she says sympathetically. “This may be one of them. And I want you to know that it doesn’t mean you haven’t made any progress at all. It just means you’re a human being who feels sad about something that </span>
  <em>
    <span>is sad</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John allows, but he doesn’t want to be back there. He doesn’t want to be back in his bunk in Wales. He doesn’t want to be back in front of a hundred flash bulbs and nosy reporters. He doesn’t want to be back in bed, alone, having dreamed of Brian next to him. He feels it all wanting to blanket over him. He feels it all wanting to tear him apart. But he thinks he’s come too far. He doesn’t want to let it happen: not here, and not at the synagogue either. “It’s my birthday too,” he says, trying to shake it off. Mary sees it a mile away, but she allows him the decency. “On Tuesday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, happy birthday,” she tells him, making him smile. “How old will you be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twenty-seven,” he says, and suddenly realizes he’d never planned a life for himself beyond his twenty-third birthday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As though she’s read his mind, she asks: “Are you where you imagined you’d be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John breathes out a dry, humourless laugh. He supposes he isn’t dead, so no, he isn’t where he’d imagined he’d be, but that doesn’t feel like good therapy chat, not unless he wants her to put him on pills for the rest of his life, so he says: “Yeah, I guess I am.” He shrugs, looks up at her, and sees that she hasn’t bought it. “I mean, I have money,” he continues. “I’ve never needed to have a proper job. I get to play music…” He trails off because he knows he doesn’t want to articulate the caveat. That yes, he’s done all the things he’d hoped he would when he was fifteen years old, but… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pushes him to do so anyway: “But…”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But I’m still sad. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But I’ve never been so successful — so good — that the universe decided to give me a rest.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it’s never seemed to matter,” he mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To who? To you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “To everyone else,” he blusters. “To the bleeding universe, I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean by that?” she urges him gently. “The universe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” he snaps. He feels himself go jumpy; his knees bouncing up and down. He hugs one arm around himself and clings to his notebook with his other hand. He wishes it would offer something. He wishes he could open it up right now, write down what he’s so angry at, and finally put words to this unfulfilled need that’s been with him since he was five years old: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I need the universe to let me keep the people I love</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It had taken everyone in random fits of destruction: accidents he couldn’t pile blame onto, medical anomalies that had been lying in wait until the opportune moment. The universe was against him; it didn’t matter how much money he made, how many records he sold, how many songs he could write. It would never clear out this heavy soul he had that the universe had pinpointed and decided: </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is the one, let’s pick it apart</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And for what? What </span>
  <em>
    <span>reason</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John closes his eyes and something inside of him tells him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you lost your mother because you didn’t choose her</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you lost Stuart because you didn’t look out for him the way you were meant to. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And then, finally, and it’s too fresh, too haunting, it tells him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you lost Brian because you got him his first prescribed amphetamines</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands before he knows where he wants to go; he wrings his hands out, just to feel like something inside of him is still moving. Everything feels slowed down. He thinks Mary must be speaking to him, but he just can’t bring it all back together. “I can’t, um…” He shakes his head, tries to shock himself back into his own body. He thinks he’s being taught how to breathe, and it must be helping, because it sounds as though the rushing of blood in his head is beginning to be drowned out again by room noise, by Mary’s soothing voice. He hears himself taking gulping breaths and realizes he’s back enough to feel hot tears on his cheeks. He realizes he’s crouched on the floor; Mary is there with him, mirroring him exactly. Her hands are on his shoulders, then she tucks his chin down towards his chest, almost like he’s got his head between his knees like some shellshocked soldier he’d seen in Liverpool after the War. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There we are,” she tells him gently and he finally feels like he gets his first breath under control. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he mutters, and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>too back</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too deep into his own skin, enough to feel embarrassed. He goes red and hot with it and thinks he never wants to come back here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, none of that,” she says as she pulls him up to stand. He keeps his eyes down, batting at the tear tracks down his cheeks, and he thinks she could say that as many times as she’d like, he’ll never stop feeling ashamed of this. “You’ve just had a panic attack, that’s all,” she continues. She sets his shirt right on his shoulders then gives his elbow a reassuring squeeze. “I take it that’s never happened before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leads him back towards the sofa and sits him down. “I don’t think so,” he mumbles, but he’s sure he’s come close. There were practically months after Julia had died that he couldn’t even remember. Maybe he’d spent all that time with his head between his knees and hadn’t even realized it. She gathers him a glass of water and a few tissues, which he takes graciously. “I don’t know where I went, I just…” He thinks of Paul and wonders if even Paul would have been able to follow him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t really a feeling you can explain,” she allows. “We’ll learn ways to bring yourself back down. When I’m not here to help you.” John swallows hard, the reality of something like that happening without Mary bears its weight on him. The reality of something like that happening anywhere but between these four walls, where he feels safe, buries him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can stop it yourself?” John bewilders; he’d felt so out of control, he can’t imagine that that could be true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ideally, we can eventually pinpoint what might bring one on,” she tells him. “Stop them before they begin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath. He shuts his eyes and lets his mind go back to where it had been. He never wants to lose control like that again. He wants to know what had caused it </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> and never go back there. He feels the empty spaces around him that had once belonged to his mother, his uncle George, Stuart, and Brian. He feels that self-loathing part of him pile the blame on the only place he can find: himself, but he digs himself through it. He realizes he hadn’t gone off his head because something had told him it was all his fault, it was simply because there were these people around him, and now they weren’t. He feels trapped in his own loneliness; he feels trapped in how </span>
  <em>
    <span>not there</span>
  </em>
  <span> they all are now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel like…” he starts, then wires his mouth shut. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, I feel almost claustrophobic, like… So you panic, right? Like I’m stuck in this space without the people in my life who have died.” Mary nods. “I mean, I think about my mother, and how I’d probably just be alright if I had her here in front of me. But she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to be here, and it just… She’s never going to be here and I’m just going to be stuck in this small space. It makes me think that I’ll never be alright. I don’t know how I’m meant to bring myself out of that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we have to let whoever’s left into that space with us,” she says. “That’s the only way to make it grow.” He wonders if that’s what he’s done with Paul all this time. He wonders if she’s just explained the most complex thing he’s ever shared with another human being. He realizes that he and Paul were never </span>
  <em>
    <span>going anywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he was just allowing Paul inside, and Paul was allowing the same thing for him too. He feels Paul and Cynthia with him, suddenly feels Brian too, and Stuart -- all the people he’s let inside. They were here now, still, even when they weren’t. “It doesn’t make our losses go away, but it’s much less lonely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John agrees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s your birthday on Tuesday,” she tells him. He looks up at her and feels warmed by what she says next: “Let’s make it a year of allowing people in to see us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something gets organized for his birthday; John hadn’t asked for it, but he’s glad it’s happened anyway. Somebody in their office has booked a back room in one of the clubs downtown; John thinks that Paul, George, and Rings must have gotten around to inviting everyone. It’s everyone he’s ever liked: the Stones, Townshend’s around here somewhere, some of Brian’s old friends from the theatre. John spends too much of his time half-in-conversation and half-scanning the place for Robert Fraser and his friend from the night at Alibi, but he comes up empty. Well, Robert is here, but Jack isn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finally…” John turns towards the voice, sees Mick sidling up next to him. Mick tucks a smile behind his half-full glass of scotch and coke. “He’s alone,” he adds with a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my party,” John drawls. “I’ll entertain if I want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think those are the lyrics,” Mick tells him. “You want a drink, or has everyone gotten you pissed enough on free alcohol?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never been known to turn down a free whiskey,” John allows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mick teases. “That’s why you get in so much trouble.” Mick turns away to the bar and there are two drinks put in front of him quicker than John imagines they could be. “Hey,” Mick muses. “Groovy Bob mentioned that he’d taken you out to Alibi,” he tells him, waggling his eyebrows for good measure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John laughs, then tells him: “He didn’t take me out.” He shrugs. “We happened to go together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you like it?” Mick asks. John takes a deep breath. “Did it feel like your sort of place?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You speak in code now, Mick?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mick blushes slightly, gives himself a rueful grin. “I don’t want to ask the wrong thing is all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did Bob tell you we brought Paul along too?” John asks. Mick just shrugs; he’d known Paul was involved. “You got a few questions for him as well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t really get the vibe from Paul, do I?” Mick allows. John raises his eyebrows, gives him a look that begs an answer to: </span>
  <em>
    <span>what vibe?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I know you saw Pete while you were there,” Mick confesses. “He mentioned it too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ,” John mutters. “It gets around, doesn’t it…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mick shrugs. “Not really,” he says. “Well, maybe ‘round a pretty tight circle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tight circle of who?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mick glances at him, decides to finally drop the facade and John is glad for it: “Queer people, John,” he says. There’s a moment where they just simply look at one another. John thinks he might just want to deny it all. That he might want to just tell Mick that he was there for a good time and to be a friend to Bob. But Mick just looks pleased to be standing in front of another man just like him. There’s something bonding about it. John takes a long pull of scotch and thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He realizes that it feels good for him too: to be standing in front of someone just like him, someone he knows, and someone who knows him in return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s quite a few of us, then,” John manages, just because he wants to know more. He knows Mick and Pete and he just wants to be surrounded by people like him. He wonders how he’d gone so long without it. But, he supposes, he hadn’t, not really. He’d always had Brian and Brian’s theatre friends. They’d always made it easier to breathe, even when they’d frightened him. “Rockers, I mean,” he clarifies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mick shrugs. “I’m sure there are,” he allows. “Pete’s the only bloke who’s ever told me. Loads of artists, actors mainly.” Then, he laughs, and quite softly says: “Rock </span>
  <em>
    <span>managers</span>
  </em>
  <span>, apparently.” He means Brian and Andrew, and even though he still likes to think of Brian in ways that make him smile, it hurts. He nods, but must look sad because Mick smiles at him and John’s suddenly glad Mick had been there with them in Wales. When they told him Brian was dead. He’s glad he’d been next to someone who knew him all along. “I think it’s very cool,” Mick says, going positive. “That you’re coming out with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just telling my mates,” John says blithely. “I’m not exactly ‘coming out with it’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still,” Mick says with a shrug. “I hope you’re happy about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John downs the last of his drink, turns towards the bartender and gestures for another one. “I am,” he tells Mick, smiling sincerely, so Mick does the same for him. He takes a deep breath, looks out over the crowd and his eyes find Paul. He wonders how he’s always able to do that. He feels a shiver go up his spine and it doesn’t go away, so, keeping his eyes on the way Paul has his arm around Jane’s waist, how he leans in to speak to Cynthia in front of him, John has to ask: “You don’t get the vibe from Paul?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mick shoots him a glance, then seems to follow his eyes, spots Paul too, quite obviously very good at entertaining the women in front of him. The timing isn’t right for the question, John realizes, and he blushes with it. He thinks that if he’d asked Mick the same question that night after Alibi when they’d held onto one another in Paul’s living room, he might have a different answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paul?” Mick scoffs. “No way,” he says with a laugh, but then seems to realize he’s put his foot in it when John turns to look at him. John thinks he must look devastated; nothing else could make Mick Jagger change his mind. “You know him better than I do though,” Mick offers. “I suppose you would know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, his chin hanging slightly towards his chest. He gives his drink another idle swirl and it makes him feel nauseous. At least, he thinks that’s what’s made him nauseous. “I suppose I would,” he allows. If Paul was like him, he’d know. If Paul wanted to look at him the way John did in Paris, if Paul had ever thought about kissing John and blaming it on prellies in Hamburg, John would </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Paul hasn’t -- he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- he wouldn’t, ever. Would he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought something might have been going on,” Mick says. John has to laugh at himself. “Nobody writes songs that good without a little love involved.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be dramatic,” John tells him through gritted teeth. He says it, but he knows it’s a lie all the same; he imagines Mick will be able to tell. “I never said I loved him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you didn’t,” Mick allows. “I don’t love all the girls I write about either.” He throws John a glance and adds: “I do want to kiss them, though.” John smiles into his drink. He starts to nod; he figures he doesn’t have to lie, figures he’s got enough scotch in him that he just plain doesn’t feel like it either. Mick grins, seeing he’s right on the money, then he claps his hand on John’s shoulder. “You’ve got it bad, mate,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John groans and bats Mick’s hand away. “Oh, sod off,” he says, but he can’t tell him that he’s wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mick leaves him with a kiss to the temple and John wonders if that’s how they’ll say goodbye to one another now. He thinks he wouldn’t mind it. His skin feels warm where Mick’s touched him; it makes him feel like he can get through the rest of the evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds Cynthia across the room, still with Paul and Jane. She gives him a quick peck on the cheek. John feels her hand on his back and he quite likes it. He likes that they still like spending time with one another. It makes him think that they’ll come out of this alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John glances to Jane, who seems to shift a little closer to Paul. He’s always made her nervous, and John wishes he felt sorry about that fact, but he doesn’t. She’d seen him beat Bob Wooler to a pulp at Paul’s twenty-first birthday and had never been able to see him as anything else. It’s one of his worst moments; he hates that it belongs in his history. But he’s glad it’d been Jane’s first. It could be worse: Jane could </span>
  <em>
    <span>like him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And he could like her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John pictures himself as he looks now: his button-up shirt done up to his chin, covered in florals. His hair is thinner and fluffier than it had ever been in a Beatle mop top, and he’s been wearing glasses every day for a year now, so he doesn’t even have to squint down his nose at her anymore. He hardly thinks he’s intimidating, but still, she’s nervous. He supposes he’s still got his tongue. Maybe that’s what she’d really been afraid of, all along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Miss Asher,” he says to her, bowing his head slightly. He glances up at Paul who’s rolling his eyes, but John catches a grin on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Happy birthday, John,” she says back to him, catching the sarcasm, but smiling all the same herself. Not for the first time, John blearily thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>she’s actually alright</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he mumbles back, smiling and going fuzzy with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn pats him on the back and says: “We were actually just about to run to the loo, do you mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, then looks to Paul. “I could use a smoke. You got one for me, Paulie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul groans, but he digs into his pocket. “I’m always giving you my ciggies,” he mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t spare a cigarette on a lad’s birthday,” John says, shaking his head ruefully. He looks to Jane and continues, despite Paul’s protests, despite the fact that Paul’s held out a cigarette for him and that John’s accepted it: “This is the sort of man you’ve chosen? Really, Miss Asher?” Giggling, Jane glances to Paul and John sees it: </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she’s telling Paul. That’s exactly the man she’s chosen. It hits him hard; harder for all the alcohol in his system, but he still puts on a smile when Cyn squeezes his elbow and then breezes by him, following Jane towards the ladies’ toilet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You coming then?” Paul asks. John realizes he’s let his eyes drop down to the floor, the black sticky floorboards. When he looks up, Paul’s already turned towards the back door, a cigarette of his own hanging loosely between his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John mumbles, following Paul through the club, out a back door for some fresh air. There are a few other people around them with the same idea, all sucking on cigarettes. Paul leans back against the outer wall of the club, so John joins him, leaning eagerly towards the open flame of Paul’s lighter. “Thank you,” he says, meaning the light, meaning the cigarette, meaning the fresh air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a nice night,” Paul observes, his head tilted upward at the night sky. You can’t see the stars here like you can in Weybridge, but Paul’s right: it’s a nice night. John realizes he’s shifted a little closer, but Paul doesn’t seem to mind, or maybe he just hasn’t noticed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You put a lot of this together, didn’t you?” John asks, and he means the club, the party. Paul just shrugs, but he doesn’t deny it. “I appreciate it,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You needed a night out,” he allows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods. “Yeah.” He looks back up at the stars and misses the way Paul glances towards him, taking in his profile, the way he exhales his smoke.Then, he feels Paul give him a gentle nudge. John looks at him and Paul hasn’t looked away. They’re close, and John thinks of Mick. What vibe would he call this, exactly? Paul’s smiling when he blows out his mouthful of smoke. John watches the way he purses his lips, directing the smoke away from John’s face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s gonna be a good year for you,” Paul says. It doesn’t mean anything, but he says it with so much confidence that John twists at the waist, turns more towards Paul, hanging on to his every word. Without waiting for an answer, Paul nods. “It’s one of those feelings, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods and wants to believe him, but he thinks of Mary Murphy, instead. He thinks of how she’d wanted him to make this a year of allowing people in to see him, but here, under the stars, behind some dingy club in London, he’s terrified at the prospect. Because he wants Paul to </span>
  <em>
    <span>see him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to be let in on the fact that John’s loved him since he was twenty years old, maybe even longer, he doesn’t even know anymore. But what then? What if he tells Paul, and Mick’s right? What if there really is </span>
  <em>
    <span>no way</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It shouldn’t be hard to beat my last one,” John says, and Paul’s tugged out of his fantasy world. He frowns at John, then looks down at the loose asphalt at their feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t all bad, was it?” he mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs, taking in a long drag. He supposes that’s just the trouble: it hadn’t been all bad. Some of it had been so </span>
  <em>
    <span>remarkably good</span>
  </em>
  <span> that John had forgotten how horrible things could be, how horrible he could be. He thinks of Brian that morning they’d kissed one another for the first time without fear. He thinks of Paul sitting next to him, covered in flowers, singing and believing that all you really need </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> love, and that they’d found it in one another. He thinks of Julian and Cynthia, on Julian’s first day of pre-school, excited and scared all at once, but comforted by the fact that they loved one another and would see each other again in just a few hours. Then, Paul again: hugging himself to John on the floor of his living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” John allows. “It wasn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul shifts closer to him, then his hand finds John’s between them. He shifts even closer so the fact that they’re holding hands is hidden by their jackets. John looks down at where he knows their fingers are interlocked, then back up at Paul, who gives him a tight smile. John wants to kiss him, and he thinks Paul looks as though he wants to kiss him back, but he’s afraid. Of people watching them, of Jane inside, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>John</span>
  </em>
  <span>, right here. Paul gives his hand another squeeze and then lets go. He lets go and shifts away. He looks back up at the stars and smokes his cigarette like nothing really happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John realizes he’s been holding his breath. He feels cold without Paul pressed right up next to him. He wants to shift back in, wants to slot his body against Paul’s and just stay there forever, but Paul won’t even look at him. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> afraid. John twists back away from Paul and stands up a little taller. He understands now that, whatever that moment had been, it’s over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to see Mimi tomorrow,” he decides to say, because maybe there’s some part of him that hopes that Paul will stop him. That that protective part of him that had just reached out to hold John’s hand might come back. Paul shoots him a glance -- he’s unsure, worried, even, by John’s tone. “Going home, as it were,” he adds, and he sees Paul realize he’d been right to worry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul goes still; like he really wants to take John in fast, like he wants to ball the front of John’s shirt up in his fists and ask: </span>
  <em>
    <span>why?</span>
  </em>
  <span> But has to reel that all back in. He actually goes for the polar opposite. He raises his eyebrows lazily and waits for John to elaborate. It’s funny, neither of them have said </span>
  <em>
    <span>Liverpool</span>
  </em>
  <span> but John had given the word ‘home’ enough weight for Paul to know. He supposes that ‘home’ always feels a bit far-off to people who have moved away, who have left their parents behind. But Paul knows it as well as John does: ‘home’ means a stranger living in his childhood bedroom, it means friends who haven’t spoken to him but may want something when they see his face, it means churches and cemeteries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For your birthday, I reckon?” Paul hazards a guess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs. “Just thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.” Paul narrows his eyes at him, so John admits: “I’m meant to meet Clive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brian’s brother?” Paul sputters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, John also allows: “And his parents, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hears himself sigh again. He’d asked himself that same question after he’d hung up on Clive two days earlier. He supposes he doesn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Just to make sure everything’s organized for Thursday,” he answers and it doesn’t even feel like the truth, he imagines it must not sound that way either. He realizes it isn’t about the memorial, not really. It’s about Brian’s family seeing him for what he was to their son. And Mimi, too, so John says: “I think I’m gonna tell Mimi about us. Brian, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul gives his head a curt shake, but he doesn’t put any words to whatever is swirling around deep inside of him. He must think John’s torturing himself, and for who? Brian’s family, who wouldn’t care who he was to their son because they didn’t care to </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> who he loved. And Mimi, who’d thought that liking </span>
  <em>
    <span>rock and roll</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been a personal affront, what would she make of her boy admitting to loving another man? He sees that Paul doesn’t see the point, that he sees it all isn’t worth the risk, but he wants to do what Mary had asked him to do: </span>
  <em>
    <span>make it a year of allowing people in to see us</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And maybe he’d ruffle a few feathers along the way, but she’d made it seem like it was the right way to live, and Brian… Being so smart, so understanding, he’d understood that that was what it was all about too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think I shouldn’t,” John observes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul shakes his head. “I didn’t say that.” He looks at John, his eyes wide. John thinks he hears the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> on his lips, but he doesn’t know why. What could Paul possibly be pleading him to do? “I hope she takes it well,” he says, and he means it so fervently that John feels his words hit him in the stomach. He hears what Paul really means, hears that he’d been right to see </span>
  <em>
    <span>please, please, please</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Paul’s eyes, in his mouth, because what he’s really saying is: </span>
  <em>
    <span>please don’t make yourself lose one other human being, you don’t deserve it.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Paul hadn’t said he thought this was a bad idea, but they both know it to be true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know how to go on without her knowing, Paul,” he admits. Paul sighs. “What am I ever meant to say to her again if she doesn’t know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Paul says around a heavy sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you tell your Dad?” John asks. Paul watches over him sadly. “If you were like me,” he adds, and sees the way that that hurts Paul, and John’s stuck again. He’s stuck in that place of not knowing. Does it hurt because it’s a question he’ll never be able to understand well enough to answer, or does it hurt because it’s too true? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I reckon I would,” he allows. “And I reckon you know her better than I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s back and John hates it: Paul’s afraid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be fine, Paul,” John tells him and he sees that they’re both silently preparing for the worst. He supposes that’s just how he’ll live his life from now on: worried that everyone hates him for who he loves, until they prove they don’t. He realizes it’s a guarded existence, but there’s something freeing about the life he’d have with the people who prove they don’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Paul says dejectedly. “And, you know, the rest of us,” he adds, he looks up at John and John knows he means George and Rings. He means they’ll all love him, no matter what. Those words pass between them, but what Paul really says is: “Well, we’ll all be here, won’t we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John croaks, because that </span>
  <em>
    <span>means</span>
  </em>
  <span> something, the truth of it </span>
  <em>
    <span>means something.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John wishes Paul would hold his hand again, but he doesn’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mimi shows him to the spare lodging room upstairs at Mendips. It’s the room that the students would stay in when John had still been living here full-time, but a bigger size meant more pay in lodging fees, so the students had been moved to John’s old bedroom. He’s surprised this second bedroom isn’t being filled, but being no more than a bed and desk, he imagines it must be hard to let.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mimi,” he tells her. “I can find somewhere to stay if it’s too much trouble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense,” she tells him. “It’s a perfectly good bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but --...” He shuts his mouth when he sees her raise her eyebrows sharply. “It’ll do just fine for a night,” he mumbles. She nods, then leaves him to it. He sets his bag down on the bed, gives the mattress a bounce and finds there’s practically no give to it at all. He grimaces, reaches out for the pillow. It’s alright, but he thinks he ought to buy her a new one. A new mattress too. Hell, maybe a whole bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his way back downstairs, he passes the door to his old bedroom. It sits half-open. He peers inside and realizes it’s empty. Gingerly, like it isn’t something that had once belonged to him, he steps inside. All of the furniture is still the same, tucked in at all the same places against the walls. He smiles to himself, closes his eyes, and pictures the way he had it. He sits down on the edge of the mattress and he knows it intimately. He looks at the desk across the room, the dinky desk chair where he always used to keep his guitar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes again and Paul is next to him. Then, it’s Pete Shotton next to him, hanging his neck off the edge of the bed, staring at that same guitar upside down, telling John that that’s how it might as well look all the time, he’ll never understand the bloody thing. He realizes that Brian never saw this bedroom when it had belonged to him. He never knew him when he was the boy that lived here. He opens his eyes and remembers that he isn’t the boy that used to live here anymore anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s tea out for him when he gets down to the kitchen. He sits opposite her at the breakfast table, in his old spot and realizes she hasn’t found a new spot either. She has her arms crossed over her chest and she regards him closely. He smiles at her, trying to decide which part of him she has a problem with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need a haircut,” she tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s shorter than the last time you saw me,” he says, grinning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still,” she mumbles, but he thinks he catches a smile of her own on her face. “It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> too long then. Now, it’s simply too long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs. “Maybe I’ll be bald the next time you see me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She groans, tells him, “don’t be hideous,” and he hears himself laugh. She smiles too and he thinks if they can just keep here, in this moment, this might be easy. He sips at his tea and it’s exactly how he likes it. He realizes it’s how Mimi takes her tea too. “I’m glad you’ve decided to come here,” she tells him and it's with a sort of softness that he hadn’t been expecting. “I’m quite sick of travelling to London.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that bad,” he says, thinking of the cars he’s spent a good amount of money on for her. If there was a civilized way to travel to London, John imagines that would be it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe not for you,” she gripes. “You’re still a young man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m twenty-seven,” he tells her, as if she doesn’t know. “I’m practically middle-aged.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, to be twenty-seven again,” she says, reaching out for her packet of cigarettes. John stops her, digs into his pocket for his own and hands one to her. He lights it too, like a proper gentleman. She smiles her gratitude. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath and says: “I’ve lived quite a life in my twenty-seven years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose you have,” she allows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A whole life, probably,” he muses, but she doesn’t look pleased. He takes a long drag, and adds: “I suppose it maybe just feels that way.” She watches him carefully; she knows he has something to say, so he decides to come out with it, not all of it, but some of it. The bits of it he thinks she can swallow for now. “Me and Cynthia are calling it quits.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She goes stiff as a board and John feels like she could hit him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren’t,” she says to him as if he might actually listen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, tells her: “We’re putting the papers in,” to make it official, and she goes red with anger. He watches her, thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>just be good about this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wants her to let him have this, so he can feel safe coming out with everything else. Divorce might feel like the worst thing to a middle-class English lady, but he had more. Christ, he had more. “Oh, come off it,” he tries, and it just seems to make her angrier. “You were the first to tell me we wouldn’t make it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “But you married her anyway,” she says, her lips terse, barely holding it all together. “So I expected you’d make it work. That’s what marriage </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>, John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand what marriage is, Mimi,” he says, grinding his teeth together. He fills his mouth with smoke and looks out the window across their front garden. He was verging on anger; so he thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I need you to understand me. I need you to support me</span>
  </em>
  <span> and just tries to keep his mouth fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so he doesn’t say anything stupid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you do,” she patronizes. “I don’t think you ever did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t help himself. He turns to look at her, eyes narrow, to match hers. “I tried to do the right thing.” She shakes her head at him and he sees red. “I suppose you’d rather I have done what Fred did, aye? Fucked off to some war somewhere and never looked at Cynthia again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d rather you have restrained yourself until you’d met someone you actually wished to marry,” she seethes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Christ,” he mutters. “I forgot you were a fucking Puritan --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will not use that language in </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>house!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would have married her anyway, Mimi!” he shouts over her, and he realizes it must be the first time he’s ever said it because it takes them both by surprise. Mimi is shocked, just for a moment, then she dives right back into her anger. “I would have married her even if we hadn’t had Julian.” He nods to himself because it feels truer than he’d expected it to. “If we hadn’t been forced to feel like we had to marry. If I hadn’t been forced to be what everyone wanted me to be --” He doesn’t mean ‘married’, he doesn’t mean a husband, he doesn’t even mean a gentleman, he means: normal, heterosexual, if he’d just been allowed to be himself, show Cynthia himself, she’d love him the way she loves him now, and he’d love her that way too, and maybe that meant that they could have made it work, somehow, but Mimi doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have never been forced into anything in your life, John Lennon,” she tells him, and anything he might have added just falls flat. The words disappear in his mouth. He looks down at his tea and just wants to shake her and ask: </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t you remember how I was? When I was a boy?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He wants to ask her why she thinks he’s grown into the man he is now if he hadn’t been forced into anything, into </span>
  <em>
    <span>being</span>
  </em>
  <span> anything. He’d never wanted to be so angry -- losing George and Julia, and Fred walking out on him had forced that onto him. He’d never wanted to be an addict -- those German bar men had shown him prellies and that god-awful dentist had gotten him his first taste of acid, and it was the same anger and emptiness from all the people that he’s lost that showed him to love the pills. He’d never wanted to be so ashamed of himself, but he remembers Bob Wooler’s face after he’d asked John about his trip to Spain with Brian: he’d said it to </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh at him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And he’d lived with that shame that made him crack Bob Wooler’s teeth in half since his school days, when boys would laugh at anyone who liked art and reading and writing and music as much as John did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up at Mimi and she’s so fucking blank. The woman who raised him, the woman who should be like a mother to him can’t even see what’s going on inside of him. He thinks about what he might have done as a kid: chuck his tea in the sink and storm upstairs to his bedroom, making the walls rattle as he throws the door shut with everything he’s got. But he hasn’t even got a bloody room anymore, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels that</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>misses that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He hasn’t got a room, he hasn’t got a home, because Mendips </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not anymore. Not when he knows Mimi won’t ever be on his side, won’t ever acknowledge the fact that he’s been dealt a shitty hand. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiff upper lip</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she’d tell him, and he realizes </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> was forced on him too. He’d just wanted to feel things, to process them, at his own speed, and she’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>forced</span>
  </em>
  <span> her speed onto him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was forced to live here, wasn’t I?” he asks bitterly and he feels himself choke on the regret of it even before it’s come out of his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks it makes Mimi flinch, just for a second, so quick that he isn’t even sure it happened. She recovers quickly, glances apathetically down at her tea, then lifts the steaming cup to her lips. “Right,” she says. “Warm tea whenever you want it in finer china than any boy in your class, a bedroom bigger than most of your friends’ front sitting rooms, and trips to Scotland every Christmastime.” She pauses and John knows he’s meant to look up at her. When he does, she raises her eyebrows at him. She’s right, he knows she’s right. In all the ways life was meant to be hard to a boy growing up in Liverpool during the war, his life had been easy. The war hadn’t claimed anyone he loved, not really. The war hadn’t destroyed his home, their neighbourhood. The war hadn’t even ever made him go hungry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d made his own life hard, he realizes. Things had happened to him, horrible things, but maybe it was the way he wanted to stay in these horrible things that made it so difficult. Maybe what he thought of as healthy grieving, processing time, maybe that was the exact sort of thing he wasn’t meant to do. If he’d just listened to Mimi, if he’d just gotten on like she taught him to, maybe he would be the man he’d wanted himself to grow up into. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she knows he’s realized she’s right, when she sees him avert his eyes down to the dinner table, she pushes her seat backward, meaning to stand, she gathers her tea and says: “how traumatizing,” before she leaves him alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knocks on the Epsteins’ front door and he’s made to wait. He’s about to knock again, when the door is pulled open. It’s Clive and John is glad for it. None of them -- George, Ringo, Paul, least of all John, himself -- would claim to have been close to Brian’s family, but at least Clive was a familiar face, even moreso now that he’d taken over a few of Brian’s business ventures, including NEMS, which, John supposes, included The Beatles. He realizes Clive is his boss now and has to suppress a grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, John,” Clive says, stepping aside to let John step in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hiya, Clive,” John mumbles. He peels out of his jacket and takes a look around. He’s been to Brian’s place a few times, generally when it was empty, so it’s strange to hear the sounds of someone cooking in the kitchen beyond them. There’s a record player on somewhere as well, but John doesn’t recognize the tune. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want some tea?” Clive asks, gesturing John towards the sofa in the sitting room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah, sure,” he tells him, before watching him disappear into the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances down at the coffee table in front of him. There’s a brochure for the New London Synagogue laying on top of some other documents. John picks it up and studies it. It looks nice. John wonders if this was the synagogue that Brian regularly went to in London; he realizes he’d never asked. Religion was always a sore spot between them, John doesn’t really know why. Neither of them were staunchly religious, but it seemed to always end in an argument. John supposes Brian was just protective of the belief and faith of his parents, John never had that sort of drive to defend it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears who he assumes to be Clive step back into the sitting room. He means to tell him that he’d picked a nice place for the memorial, but when he looks up, he sees that it’s Brian’s mother. She’s carrying a tray of tea and John wonders if Clive had her make it. John would have done it himself if he knew that was going to be the case. He drops the brochure down on the table and stands. He knows she goes by Queenie, Brian had told him as much back in their early days, but here, planning her son’s memorial, it feels too casual, too disingenuously familiar. He doesn’t know her, after all, so he says: “Mrs. Epstein,” and it sounds so strange. She doesn’t correct him, doesn’t ask him to call her by anything else, just takes a step forward, meaning to place the tea down on the small coffee table. John meets her somewhere in the middle, taking it off her hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, John,” she tells him, but she can’t quite seem to look directly at him. John feels his palms go sweaty. He realizes that she knows about him. About him and her son. He realizes that Brian’s told her about him, at some point over the years. “Can I get you anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head. “No,” he tells her, but his voice catches on something in his throat. “No, thank you,” he adds, remembering his manners. She nods and heads back into the kitchen. She looks glad to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive rejoins him, he has a few extra documents in his hands which he places in the pile along with the others on the coffee table. He takes his tea and sits down on the sofa. John holds onto his teacup, but feels too ill to actually drink any of it. He realizes Clive must know about he and Brian too. If not from Brian himself, then from Queenie, surely. He realizes how transparent his guilt must look to them now. They hadn’t received anything more than a group condolence from him and the others. He imagines they’d probably expected more from him. Maybe he ought to have done more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The place looks nice,” John decides to finally say; he points vaguely towards the brochure he’d been looking at.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is,” Clive says with a curt nod. John tries to imagine Clive there, with Brian too. He likes the idea of Brian having someone to go with. “I think we’ve got it all nearly sorted,” Clive tells him, and John realizes he doesn’t want him here, just as much as John realizes he doesn’t want to be here either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good,” John says, just to hear his own voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you didn’t make the trip up here just for this,” Clive supplies. “I told you we had it handled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John just shakes his head. “No, I was seeing my Auntie,” he says, but it all feels like some lie. He’d come to see Mimi because he’d be in town to see Clive, and he’d come to see Clive because he’d be in town to see Mimi. Both felt true and untrue all at once. He suddenly thinks of Paul outside that club for his birthday: </span>
  <em>
    <span>why? Why are you doing this?</span>
  </em>
  <span> And John had felt so sure of himself that night, so sure that he needed to be here, to show these people who he actually was, but now he feels just as bewildered as Paul had. It had all been some horrible mistake, some misguided attempt at personal development fed to him by some hack psychologist who, he realizes, doesn’t actually know him or see him either, at least not in this way. She doesn’t know that he didn’t just miss Brian; he missed touching and kissing Brian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that feels harsh. He thinks of Mary crouching down in front of him, her hands reassuringly on his shoulders, and he realizes that Mimi had never done that for him. He glances up at Clive; he wouldn’t find anything remotely close to that here either. He thinks of George, touching him that day in north Wales, grounding him by just looking at him. And Rich hugging him on the side of the road waiting for Cynthia, hugging him when John hadn’t even asked for it. And Paul… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just wants someone to touch him. He doesn’t know what home is, doesn’t know what he’d expected to find here, but he realizes that home must be a place where people aren’t afraid to touch him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is she doing well?” Clive asks politely. John nods because he’s worried his voice will shake if he speaks. “I’m glad,” he says only because he knows he’s meant to. John nods again, he glances out across the living room, swallowing hard, then his eyes catch two new photographs hanging on the wall next to the television. One is of the four of them, and Brian, dressed sharply, smiling brightly at some awards ceremony and the other is of Brian as a boy, not much older than Julian is now, smiling just the same way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands, goes to them. He studies Brian’s face, then studies his own next to him. They both look so happy that John finds himself smiling along with themselves. He points to the portrait, looks over his shoulder at Clive and asks: “How old is he here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive sighs, stands, and comes to stand next to John. “About six, I’d guess,” he says. John realizes he’s in a school uniform, perhaps his first day in one at primary school. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There one of you like this?” John asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive smiles and nods. “Upstairs, somewhere. They’d both been in the back hallway together for years. Mum took them down when we left home, took them into the master room.” John smiles; she’d wanted to keep them close, in any way she could. He glances back at Brian’s photo and feels so sad for her. She didn’t keep his photo close to her while she slept anymore. Maybe she worried that Brian would work his way into her dreams the way John worried about the same thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does your Mum have others?” he hears himself ask. He doesn’t know why but he wants a photo for himself. A version of Brian that he never actually knew. The boy that grew up into the man that he loved. “Other photographs. Albums.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive looks him over uneasily. “Of course she does,” he says. He doesn’t offer to go get them, and John’s too embarrassed to actually ask. So, he just nods, and heads back to his cup to tea, going cold in front of him in real time. Clive sits down beside him. He watches John fidget, watches him reach back out for the synagogue’s brochure. John thinks he looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know how. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It took a long time to plan this,” John observes. “August to October, you could have asked for help. You didn’t have to wait for me to call you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive shakes his head, then as though it were obvious says: “We meant to do this in October.” John furrows his brow, means to ask why, before Clive continues: “Friday is our first holiday since Brian’s passed. Our family will be there to recite Yizkor following the memorial.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” John says, feeling foolishly ignorant. “What holiday?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yom Kippur,” Clive tells him. John doesn’t know what the holiday is for, or what it entails, but it’s a name he knows, he figures that must mean it’s a significant one. He feels himself start to go a bit red. He feels out of his depth, like Clive’s seen him for a fraud. How could he consider himself one of Brian’s close friends if he hadn’t even realized one of the more important days of his year was coming up?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Clive mumbles. He looks down at his hands, but John thinks that he might be smiling. “My parents may have been able to stomach everything a bit more if you had been Jewish,” he says. He looks up and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles back, ruefully tells him: “You can’t have it all, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive’s grin grows. “No, I suppose you can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this all a part of it, then?” John asks. He shifts closer to Clive. “The time, the holidays, remembering him. Is this all a part of losing someone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive nods. “There are various stages, but all in all, you’re meant to grieve in one way or another for a year,” he explains. “Brian was my brother,” he says, and John realizes that his smile is gone and it’s been replaced with something sadder. “And he was my parents’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>child</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” John feels himself exhale sharply; he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. “You need so much time to mourn a loss like that.” John swallows hard, feels something caught in his throat. He wants to nod, wants to say ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>!</span>
  <em>
    <span> finally someone else is saying it</span>
  </em>
  <span>’, but he finds he can’t speak at all. “You think that’s too long,” Clive says, taking John’s silence for judgement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” John manages. He shakes his head fervently. “No, I think that’s very respectful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive smiles at him, sadly but graciously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s more tea made and John finds himself almost asking if he could stay the night. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dinner’s been made, John can smell it the second he walks in through the door. He glances down at his watch and knows he’s late. “Shit,” he mumbles. He closes the front door behind him quietly, but Mimi’s already heard him. He hears the needle being lifted off whatever record she’d begun to play without him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps into the dining room and everything is laid out to make a point. Mimi is still in her place at the head of the table. She’s smoking a cigarette, which she very pointedly crushes into her ashtray as soon as they make eye contact. To her left, there’s a nearly-empty plate, clearly having been eaten off of by her lodger. To her right, is what had been meant to his. Untouched and gone cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was gone longer than I thought,” John mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raises her eyebrows at him, expecting more from him. “There are telephones where you went, aren’t there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John groans, he heads towards his seat, means to grab his plate and heat it up in the oven, tells her, “I’m sorry,” but it isn’t good enough. She takes the plate before he can get to it. “I’ll eat it, don’t waste it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ruined,” she tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you can see, we weren’t meant to be eating alone,” she says, gesturing to the third plate and John realizes that she’d meant </span>
  <em>
    <span>the evening</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been ruined, not the food. “We waited. I told him you’d be coming. That you’d come all the way from London and wouldn’t dare miss it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just your student, Mimi,” he tries, reaching for the plate again, but she tugs it out of his way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>embarrassed</span>
  </em>
  <span> me,” she says, finally telling him what she means. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bristles, feeling like a little kid all over again. “I don’t know what else you want me to say --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted you to have changed by now!” She takes his plate into the kitchen, takes the other empty ones with her too. John follows her, means to take something from her so she doesn’t drop anything on the floor, but she doesn’t let him. He follows her to the kitchen, watches her dump his serving in the rubbish and drop all the dishes into the sink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What am I meant to eat now?” John asks, resenting the fact that he sounds like the child she’d already made him feel like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care,” she says. “You’re not a little boy anymore, John.” She keeps her back to him and begins to wash the dirty dishes. “You can’t run around these streets anymore, causing mischief, I won’t stand for it.” He opens his mouth to tell her where he’d been, but he knows she doesn’t mean it literally. Besides, she speaks before he’s even really been given the chance to argue. “Breaking commitments to everyone who matters,” she says, and he realizes she’s still talking about Cynthia. Cynthia, and herself: “You only allow me a day or two a year now,” she says, and John knows she doesn’t mean to sound so sad about it. “The least you can do is show up when you’ve said you would.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her that this place makes him feel like he can’t breathe, so he wires his mouth shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d hoped that my being hard on you would make a difference,” she says, and he wants to tell her that he’d never needed hardness. He’d always needed the opposite. “Sometimes I think you’re defiant just for the sake of it,” she continues, and John thinks she’s probably right. “There’s nothing I can do against that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I would have been alright if you hadn’t looked at me like something to change,” he says, and it makes her turn towards him. He swallows hard, takes a slight step backward when she steps forward. She keeps her eyes glued to him and he feels taken down a few sizes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t have to bring you into my home,” she says and for a horrible moment, John thinks she might leave it at that. Or perhaps worse, she’d tell him that she regrets it. “I did it because I wanted you to have the chance to be the best version of yourself. Your parents never gave you a chance.” It hurts them both that neither of them will speak Julia’s name. It hurts them to speak ill of the dead. “That made you so angry. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be changed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just needed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” John tells her, choking on that word: he hates to ask people for things, always has. Their love most of all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I suppose you think I never loved you,” she says through a scoff. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You never liked me,” he decides to say, because he knows it’s wrong to say she never loved him. But she’d never really known him, never really understood him. Not what he liked, and certainly not what he needed. When he needed someone to hug him, she’d stand away. When he needed someone to tell him that his mistakes were his to make and moments for him to learn from, she’d ignore him. And now, when he needs someone to just tolerate who he loves, accept him for who he is, she’ll judge him. The same way she’d judged him about Cynthia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?” Mimi asks, likely remembering the fond moments that they’d spent together in this kitchen, because that’s just what he was doing too. When he’d make her laugh so hard her side stitched. When she’d take him to the Liverpool Empire. When she’d let he and George play their records so loud it shook the windows. But it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>true</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She’d never </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. Him: a queer boy, too into rock and roll, making art that she thought was too crude. If Julia wasn’t her sister, Mimi would </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs helplessly, because he doesn’t know how to explain any of this. Not without telling her everything, and he suddenly doesn’t feel ready. He goes red with it; he feels so foolish, </span>
  <em>
    <span>telling her</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been the whole point of coming down here. But now, it’s stuck in his throat. He can’t do it. Because what if she did hate him? Even though he was her dead sister’s boy, what if she hated him for it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t believe that,” she finally concludes. She turns back to the sink and John wonders if she’s right. He doesn’t know anymore. All he knows is that he feels like a stranger in the home he grew up in. All he knows is that she looks at him and doesn’t see the person he wants to be. She doesn’t see the man that’s been left bereft by losing someone who’d been more than a friend. She doesn’t see the man trying to dig through the pile of shit her family dropped onto him when he hadn’t even been old enough to walk to school on his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lays himself down on that small bed in the spare lodging room and realizes that Kenwood isn’t his home anymore either. Or, wouldn’t be soon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where was he meant to go? Where could he go where people would </span>
  <em>
    <span>see him</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. PART THREE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Whew, so this one really got away from me! I can’t believe I once thought this and the previous part could have been all one chapter :/// so naive. </p><p>We’ve got a lot of good and bad here, folks, I won’t lie! Lots of communication, though. At least there’s that. On John’s part. I think I really run the risk of Paul potentially being slightly unlikeable in this part, but I really wanna hit home that a lot of the issues that John’s been working through with professional help are issues that Paul is dealing with on his own. I played with that idea, and how the consequences of these two decisions (seeking help vs. Not seeking help) can really foil one another. I really think Paul is doing his best with the cards he’s been dealt. Just wanna make sure that’s in everyone’s mind before we get to the Paul-heavy bits.</p><p>There’s a bit in here during one of John’s sessions with Dr. Murphy that gets a little squicky about religion. It’s Christian-centric because that’s what John would have been most exposed to. It’s quick and relatively painless, but just a forewarning. The session itself is pretty formative, so probably not totally skippable, but the beginning religion part is relatively short and skimmable.  </p><p>I’m pretty sure I’m fudging the date for the premiere of How I Won The War, but it is what it is. </p><p>We do meet our Original Male Character from our previous part here again. He and John do fully hook up in this chapter. It'd not really detailed, but again, if that's not your thing, it's pretty skippable. He goes home with him after an Apple Boutique party John goes to with George + Cynthia, FYI.</p><p>Also, one of the main reasons for this fix-it (lmao besides the obvious) is to very pointedly say that I refuse to allow this John to have the sideburns he had in early-1968. There’s a scene that takes place during the Hey Bulldog sessions and just…. no. This John is balanced enough to not allow that to happen. </p><p>Enjoy this monster of a chapter! :/ oops</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>PART THREE.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The flat’s small, but it’s got a good amount of light and a decent-sized second bedroom for John to keep all of his guitars and probably a piano in there. He pauses in that second bedroom, picturing all the instruments he has at Kenwood and knows he won’t be able to bring them all here. He supposes that just means he’ll have to leave a few for Julian and the thought makes him smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances over his shoulder at Cynthia: she’s inspecting the window for a draught. She looks up at him when she doesn’t find one and smiles sadly. She knows that the place will do, John can see that on her face, and he thinks maybe she doesn’t want him to go. But it felt right. To look for a new home of his own, even if it was only meant to be temporary. It was making things too hard, being in the same house. He’d already wondered too many times lying awake in bed next to Cynthia, if </span>
  <em>
    <span>somehow</span>
  </em>
  <span> they could make it work together, but they </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. John had realized that he just wanted to be loved, he didn’t want to be married, and to allow Cyn to think he might wasn’t fair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s quaint,” she tells him and he nods. It’s more than that, John can tell. It’s symbolic, it’s enticing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“EMI’s only a few minutes drive,” Alistair tells them, then seems to back off, embarrassed that he’s been listening in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John supposes that’s really all that matters: EMI’s only a few minutes drive. It’s everything he’d spent years being jealous of Paul over. It’s a flat downtown, where he could be close to the art and music scene. It’s a happening outside of country lanes. He supposes he is a little nervous about attracting girls to his front gate like Paul has, but the exterior had been so inconspicuous that he thinks he might be able to get away with it. They aren’t that bad anyway, the girls. Though he does wonder what they might think if they ever caught him bringing men inside with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John gives a nod to Alistair, silently asking him and the estate agent to give them a moment. Alistair makes some remark about seeing the railing on the back steps and confirming that it’s up to code, then John and Cyn are left alone. John heads over to the window that she hasn’t been able to leave. She’s still tracing lines along where the frames meet the panes. He sets his chin on her shoulder and peers down to the street below them. It bustles with a few late-morning businessmen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does Dr. Murphy think it’s better that we spend time apart?” Cyn asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs; he realizes he hadn’t even run this decision by her. He wonders what she might think. He hopes she’d think he’s right to start looking for new flats. In his head, it had seemed… mature, he supposes. Responsible. But with Cyn next to him now, he isn’t so sure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to have a big part of your life not be about me anymore,” he decides to say. He feels Cyn inhale sharply and it makes something in his chest hurt. “I think you should be allowed to get started on that.” She seems to go a bit stiff beneath him. Then, she cranes her neck to look at him; he lets her go so she can fully turn to look at him. He realizes she looks suspicious of something and he’s immediately thrown back into the men’s toilets at Alibi with Jack’s body pressed up against him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We aren’t even properly separated yet,” she says to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” John allows. Marriage had never stopped him before, he wonders why she thinks it might now, but, in a way, it has. He hasn’t been with anyone but Cynthia since they decided to end things. Strange how things work out that way. He thinks he ought to hold onto that golden truth. Mary might find it interesting. Then, Cyn seems to soften, like she’s believed him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like the idea of that house without you,” she mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s perfectly safe --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>too big</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she says over him, and John wires his mouth shut. He knows what she means. That was why he hated it too. That was why he spent so much of his time in his cramped attic studio. It was the only room in the house that felt small enough to belong to him. “Maybe Julian would like to live in the city too,” she muses, but it hits too close to home. John feels something warm, like hope, in his stomach. It’s something he could imagine. Here, given all the things that this flat gives him: privacy, freedom, and proximity, and Cyn and Jools in a flat of their own somewhere nearby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think he would?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn looks up at him bemusedly and he realizes she's meant it sarcastically. He thinks his eyes must betray him because then she looks sad. “If you want him close to you, then --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cyn,” he says, cutting her off. She means to tell him to stay at Kenwood, but he suddenly feels the way he had at Mendips: like a boy without a home, without a room, surrounded by walls that only cared to protect him when he was the man that hadn’t accepted who he liked loving. And just like he hadn’t been able to tell Mimi, he can’t tell Cyn now: </span>
  <em>
    <span>our home makes me feel like I can’t breathe.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she says, even though he hasn’t said anything. “You must feel so different,” she continues. “Is that what this is about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard; she means his coming out, and he supposes it is. There’s a version of him from before losing Brian, before acceptance, before Mary and he’d spent so much of his time hating that person. Was it so wrong to want to leave it all behind? He thinks of Brian, coming to terms with his love for other men, then taking off to London for an acting degree at RADA. That’s all this was. John was taking off to London, just like he’d been taught to. He thinks of Mick and Pete here too. The city offered them a place to find one another. He’d been so alone out in Weybridge; if it hadn’t been for Brian, he might have thought he was the only man like him left in the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so,” he manages, keeping his eyes down on the floorboards between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears her take a deep breath, then feels her hand at his elbow. He looks up at her; she’s a mix of gentle and stern. “If this is what you think you need, then I want you to do it,” she tells him. He nods, then he feels her fingers squeeze at his arm a little tighter. “But you’ll stay at home until we figure out a way to explain it to Julian.” John feels all the blood rush out of him. He nods, but the way he’s chewing a hole in his bottom lip tells her that he doesn’t want to do that. “You can tell him as little or as much about your own reasoning, but we’ll not lie to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, he supposes he has to allow that that’s fair. He thinks of Julian at twenty-seven again: so loved that it isn’t even something he has to think about, and he wonders just how much of him Julian will carry forward. Would he ever feel afraid about the way he looked at the men in his life? Would he ever shame that part of him so deep down that it threatened to destroy him from the inside out? John wonders how much he can be of help, just by being himself, by being honest. Julian was still a child -- kept safe by John and Cyn and the rest of the open-minded Beatle entourage. He hadn’t been taught to hate people like his father, or Brian, yet, maybe he never would be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can do that,” he agrees, but he’s glad all he’s agreed to is </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He takes a heaving breath and wonders just what exactly he might tell his son. What would be appropriate? And not just now -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Would he ever let Julian in to really see him? Or was that the exact thing a father was meant to shield their children from? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are we thinking, John?” Alistair suddenly asks from the doorway to the bedroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John glances over his shoulder at him and the agent. Alistair offers him a tight smile and John wonders how much they’ve heard. He looks back to Cynthia who gives him a curt nod. The decision is his to make, but he doesn’t know if he wants it to be. He suddenly remembers finding Kenwood with Brian. He remembers Brian telling him it was the right choice. He remembers Brian getting into it with the estate agent, leaving John blissfully exempt from any real decision-making. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we’ll let it,” he says, keeping his eyes on Cyn. She nods again, then smiles to Alistair, confirming the plan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s just grand,” the agent says in a comically pleasant tone. He certainly hasn’t been made aware of the circumstances. “Shall we get down to business?” he asks Alistair and Alistair looks to John and nods. John realizes his part in this is over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they’re alone, Cynthia gives his hand an experimental squeeze and he thinks that’s the sort of thing he’ll miss when he’s living here alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John wrinkles his suit by sitting on the floor in the sitting room with Julian, but he doesn’t care. He watches Julian build a track for one of his model trains. He isn’t doing it properly, but John wants to see where he’ll go with it. He imagines he never played with toys in any ‘proper’ way either. Julian’s still in his sleep-clothes and John wishes he was too. The suit he’s in makes him think of 1964. It’s more formal and together than anything he’s worn in the last year and a half. It’s prim, all black, for one. No splashes of colour, or daft pins or patches. He’s come to think of florals as his ‘thing’, but it hadn’t felt appropriate. Though he imagines it would have made Brian smile to know he’d worn a blue floral shirt to his memorial. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John?” he hears Cyn call from another room. He takes a deep breath. They’re almost ready to leave, he knows that’s what she must mean to tell him, but he doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay right here on the floor with Julian and pretend he hasn’t lost a friend. “Have you changed your mind about your tie?” John glances down at his chest, realizes he hasn’t got a tie on at all. “Or, are you still going with this one?” He realizes he’d left it on the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Going with that one,” he tells her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gets to the doorway, tie in hand. She pauses and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They’re the two most important boys in her life, together, they way they were meant to be. She smiles, pulls herself from that thought, and holds the tie out to John. Reluctantly, John gathers himself up off the floor. He goes to her and takes the tie from her. There’s a mirror in the front foyer. He stands there to watch his reflection tie the fabric around his own neck. His fingers fumble with it as he pictures himself back on the floor with Julian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he thinks of Julian, earlier that morning, when the nanny had arrived and he’d looked to his parents, already nearly blubbering and told them: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t want you to go</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and John thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t want to go either.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He realizes his eyes have gone wet and blurry when he can’t make out his own reflection in the mirror. “Fucking hell,” he mumbles, tearing off his glasses. He sets them down and rubs at his eyes with the butt of his hand. He wishes he could be more gentle with himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes another look at himself in the mirror, sees his eyes are now ringed red. His tie still hangs untied around his neck, somewhere in the middle of the process. He isn’t even sure what he’s done, so he pulls it loose, means to start over, but his hands just aren’t working the way he wants them too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Cyn says from somewhere behind him. He wants her presence to soothe him, but it just makes him jumpier. He wraps the tie back around his neck and he thinks he must be too rough with it because then he feels Cyn’s hands on his shoulders, then batting his own hands away from himself. “Hey,” she says again. “Stop, let me.” He shuts his eyes, drops his forehead in one hand and just lets her get to work. He can hear her humming to herself, but then realizes she isn’t really humming to herself at all. He feels her hands brush up against his chest even when they don’t need to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say, then his hands drop to his sides and he just lets himself be looked after. When she’s nearly finished, she turns him back towards the mirror. Standing behind him, her hands all over his shoulders and chest, she pulls the knot up tightly towards his throat. She straightens it out so gently that John can’t believe he can still feel like he’s breathing. She watches his eyes in the mirror and when they meet, she smiles at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There,” she tells him. She must see a new batch of tears in his eyes because she turns him towards him and pulls him against her chest. He wraps his arms right around her before she’s even fully turned him towards her. He buries his nose somewhere in the crook of her neck and thinks again: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t want to go</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squeezes him tight, but she never says: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you don’t have to. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John doesn’t remember much of the details of the memorial; he spends most of it staring directly ahead at the back of the chair in front of him. Cynthia is on his one side, Paul on the other. Somewhere in the middle, Cynthia reaches out for his hand and holds it in her lap without saying anything at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances to Paul, who looks as though he’s been watching him for some time. He gives John a reassuring wink and John imagines someone doing that for him after Julia had died. He squeezes Cynthia’s hand and wonders how he’d ever felt like he didn’t have anyone around him that could help him. He feels covered and protected by the two most important people in his life; the two people he’s had with him through every loss since he was eighteen years old. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Life hadn’t been hard for him the way it had been hard for Paul — a true working-class Liverpool boy — but still, life had been hard all the same. It had been hard and continued to be so, but in this golden light of the people who love him, he realizes it had also granted him some luck along the way too. He wasn’t owed people like Paul and Cynthia. He’d been lucky to find them and keep them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances up at the portrait of Brian at the front of the synagogue and allows that he hadn’t been entirely lucky. He thinks of Stuart too and wonders who or what was choosing his losses for him. He hears his own voice in his head again, same as he had in Mary’s office, telling him that </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> had chosen them. The people he lost were gone because of clear choices he’d made. He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and feels afraid because all he and Mary had done had been talk about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>prospect</span>
  </em>
  <span> of stopping this feeling working its way up his throat before it starts, she hadn’t actually taught him any of the techniques yet. But it was coming back all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to picture Mary’s office, Mary in front of him, her hands on his shoulders, guiding his head down towards his chest. He realizes he must remember more from that moment than he’d thought because he hears her taking deep, soothing breaths, counting in and out, training him to follow her. So he does. In: </span>
  <em>
    <span>one, two, three, four</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Out: </span>
  <em>
    <span>one, two, three, four</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John?” he hears Paul whisper next to him, then he feels Paul’s hand tugging at his sleeve. “Johnny, you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods quickly, but he doesn’t open his eyes, and he sure as hell doesn’t look at either Paul or Cynthia. They’d catch him for a liar if he did. They must share a quick glance because then he feels Cynthia wrap her hands around his other arm and she tugs him towards her. She kisses his temple and whispers: “Do we need to go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, he shakes his head. He pulls away from her and forces his eyes open to watch whoever it is at the front of the synagogue leading them in a prayer? In a poem? John’s got no bleeding clue where they hell they are. He finds Clive and Queenie seated near the front. They’re still and calm and John thinks he ought to take a page from their books. He thinks of Clive: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brian was my brother. And my parents’ child.</span>
  </em>
  <span> John didn’t know Brian any better than they did. He wasn’t feeling this any harder than they could have been. He just needed to be still and calm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” he hisses to Cynthia, then he glances to Paul and repeats himself, just as fervently: “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Paul gives him another short nod, shares a look with Cynthia, and then his eyes are back up front. John realizes that Paul isn’t clinging to his sleeve anymore and he hadn’t meant to make him stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as things begin to look as though they’re wrapping up, John excuses himself past Cynthia and everybody else in their aisle, getting more and more antsy with every passing person, who only look more and more annoyed as he goes. He courses down the aisle, ignoring the way that people are looking at him. He throws a glance over his shoulder back at the patrons behind him as he turns out of the synagogue and he finds Clive watching him. He isn’t allowing himself to look as sad as he feels, John can feel the way it’s weighing on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tears down the front steps and finds a secure little spot to smoke a cigarette. By the time his ciggie is half-burnt-out, people have begun to file past him, towards their cars and taxis. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns away from them, going a bit hot, imagining the way he must have looked on his way out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you are,” someone says and John feels his chest go tight. He knows it’s Clive before he turns towards the voice. He’s standing there, with his hands clasped behind his back awkwardly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” John immediately tells him. “I needed to, um…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” Clive says, shaking his head, making John believe him. He steps closer and John’s glad he has. He looks at Clive and actually sees Brian for the first time. He sees him in his brother’s eyes. He realizes that there’s still a part of him left. Clive sidles up next to him, leans back against the wall John’s found. He takes a deep breath, then says: “I’ve brought something for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John furrows his brow. “A present?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive laughs, then he shrugs. “I suppose.” He finally brings his second hand out from behind his back and John realizes he’s been clutching onto an envelope. Whatever’s inside is too big for it. The lip isn’t able to fully close and it bulges in some places. “You got it in my head, so after you’d left, me and my mother went through a few of our old photographs,” he explains. He seems to be blushing slightly, like he’s never meant to let someone, least of all a practical stranger, see him so vulnerably. “Mum had her favourites, of course. So did I.” John nods, then he looks down at the envelope as Clive shoves it in his general direction. “I thought you may want some of what was left over.” John inhales sharply. He looks down at this same envelope and suddenly sees it differently. He tugs at it, wanting it for himself and feels Clive resist slightly. Just for a moment, then he lets it go. John clings to the envelope with both hands, tucks it against his chest and feels like he can breathe properly. “You can take your pick of the lot. Or take them all,” Clive tells him. He shrugs sadly. He isn’t ready to give up a piece of his brother, so John sees it for the kindness that it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he manages. His fingers itch to open it up and see what’s inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive nods, then allows: “My brother really did love you. There was a time he’d never shut up about it.” John smiles slightly; imagines Brian home from Spain, still looking tanned and unable to stop smiling. He imagines it because he knows there’d been a huge part of himself that had wanted to do the same. But he’d just been too afraid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I loved him too,” John decides to say and he realizes he can count on one hand the amount of people he’s told that to. Clive sighs heavily. John can tell it still makes him slightly uncomfortable to hear. It makes him sad, that even after Brian was gone, there was still a part of his brother that didn’t like to understand him. “I hope you see that that’s all it ever was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive nods. “I accepted the man he was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sees that for the truth that it is. He nods, and thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, but did you love him for it? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He supposes acceptance is all you can expect from some people, and maybe it’d begin to hurt less if you began to see it that way. John thinks of Mimi and wonders what she might say after he’s died: would she accept him? Would she just accept parts of him and ignore the rest? Or would she simply love all of him? He hopes it would be the latter. He suddenly hates the way he’d left her. He hadn’t even given her the chance to accept or deny him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for these,” John decides to say, lifting his newest prized possession. “I’ll look after them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clive nods graciously and John thinks he does see it for what it was between John and his brother: simple love. He would look after the pieces of Brian he had left because he’d looked after the precious parts of Brian when he’d been alive too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If they knew one another any better, John thinks Clive might have embraced him. Instead, he just puts his hand on John’s shoulder, gives it a squeeze that tells him that, for better or worse, they were bonded together by this loss. Clive smiles, then leaves him to his cigarette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Paul who finds him next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands away awkwardly, unsure of how much space John needs. With Paul, it was never very much. “You mind if I join you?” he asks gingerly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, so Paul takes the spot that Clive had just been in. It feels cruel to admit it, but he’s glad it’s Paul here now. It makes him feel safe. And even though he feels safe, he finds himself tucking the envelope of photographs away into his pocket, hoping to avoid any questions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You move very quick when you want to,” Paul observes once he’s lit his ciggie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John laughs at himself derisively. He glances at Paul, who smiles back at him. “You know me and religion,” John laments. “I go up in flame if I’m around it too long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Paul says around a laugh. “Silly, I’d forgotten that fact.” He looks down at his feet, kicking at a few loose pebbles. He sighs, then tells John: “It was a very nice service. You and Clive did well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t have much to do with it,” John allows with a wry shrug. “They had most of it done by the time I got there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul just shrugs. “I’m sure they appreciated the gesture.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks of the photographs in his pocket and realizes that they must have. He just nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel Paul watching him. His nerves spill out onto John. He means to ask him something, but doesn’t know quite how to. So, John sighs and gives him the answer to spare him the embarrassment: “Mimi and I are still on speaking terms.” Paul exhales sharply, like John’s just hit him. The relief is tangible; John feels so warmed by it that he thinks it’s unfair to allow Paul to continue feeling it when it was unwarranted. “I also didn’t tell her about my new affinity for kissing men.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul seems to sulk slightly, then decides to make a joke of it. That’s what they’re best at, anyway. “New?” he says, then raises his eyebrows when John glares at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, giving Paul a smile, which makes Paul smile back. “Well, new </span>
  <em>
    <span>to her</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, then goes back to solemn: “Do you still mean to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a long drag of his cigarette and realizes he’s smoked it down to the filter. “Yeah, I think so,” he allows, stubbing the butt out underneath his boot. Without being asked, Paul offers him his half-smoke. “We fought, and it just didn’t feel quite right to say it then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You fought?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told her about the divorce,” John allows with a shrug. “She didn’t take it well. I thought it might be smart to leave off without any more bad news.” He glances at Paul and catches him frowning. He looks away from John when he realizes he’s been seen. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t call it bad news,” he says. John sighs; just because Paul’s said it, doesn’t make it feel any better. “It’s a good thing you’re doing,” Paul continues. “I can see it making a difference,” he adds, and for the first time, John feels compelled to tell him about his time spent with Dr. Murphy. He swallows down that impulse and just nods instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope it is,” he says, meaning all of it. He thinks of Brian, wherever he is, thinking that it’s made a difference too, that he’s gotten so much closer to the man Brian had hoped he would be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Paul starts nervously. “I was thinking… With everything going on, if you thought you might want to get away…” He shrugs, then glances up at John. He can barely keep their eyes locked and John isn’t sure why. “I’ve got to shoot a little more for the film, and we were thinking I could fly off to France or something. It’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fool </span>
  </em>
  <span>stuff, so you wouldn’t have to do anything. You could just come, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels something well up inside of him. “To France?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul shrugs again and John can see that he’s blushing. “Only if you wanted to, I mean.” He pauses and John finds himself holding his breath. “We could shoot the thing and then, maybe…” He looks back at John and means to intimate total sincerity. John hangs on to every word. “Well, I thought we could come home through Paris, or something,” he offers, and John feels whatever had been welling up inside of him, burst. It fills him up entirely. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Paris</span>
  </em>
  <span>… That means something. That’s always meant something to them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks of their first trip to Paris together: seeing Paul in golden light, seeing the truth of it all: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. John’s thought of Paris nearly every day since. For the first time, he wonders if Paul has done the same thing, all this time. He goes pink with it. His fingers tingle with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to go back to Paris?” John manages and he thinks he must sound so lovestruck that Paul </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> see him. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> see him too closely. So, he crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at the gravel at their feet and shrugs. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he can see Paul smiling at him, at his obviousness. “Paris is nice,” he allows, forcing his voice to sound more like himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is nice,” Paul agrees. “Say you’ll come,” Paul pushes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John just nods, then realizes Paul’s expecting a proper answer. “I’ll come,” he tells him, and Paul goes pink with it. He nods happily, then lays his head down against John’s shoulder. John remembers Paul doing just this in front of the Seine on his twenty-first birthday. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They decide that Julian should be out of the house as John packs the few boxes he thinks he’ll need for the new flat into Ringo’s car. Cyn watches from the front door as the two of them pile the whole of John’s life in the backseat and the boot. As suspected, John has to leave a few guitars; he leaves a ukulele too and instructs Cyn to show Julian that it’s his to keep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On a scale of nothing to everything, John had decided to tell Julian next to nothing. He thinks he might give away a little more when he’s a bit older, but it still makes him so nervous. That night, as John tried to fall asleep next to Cynthia for the last time, he realizes he’d have to think about what he might do if he ever started to seriously see a man. He’d have to tell Jools then; he’d have to explain what it all means. He pops an ambien because the thought alone is enough to keep him up all night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Cyn’s mother had arrived to take Julian out to the park for the day, Rings shows up with a sad smile that just seems to go concerned. “You look terrible,” he tells John. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John realizes he’s just finished chain smoking his sixth cigarette since waking up that morning. He stubs it out in the first ashtray he finds, and tells Ringo: “I slept like shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo nods, as if that might begin to explain everything. He spots the boxes packed in one corner of the foyer. “This everything?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods bitterly, then takes another look around the house. He supposes everything here is his, technically, but anything of any real significance was packed away: four boxes full, that’s it, full of everything in his life that wasn’t devoid of meaning. He realizes he’s leaving Cyn and Jools behind in Kenwood and thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>well, not everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Ringo says, clapping his hands together, and he gets to work. John is glad for it; he’s glad to have something to do with his hands. It’s quicker than </span>
  <em>
    <span>moving out</span>
  </em>
  <span> should be, it doesn’t feel as weighted as it should. He looks to Cynthia still watching them and realizes that she feels the same way. As he shuts the door behind the last of his boxes, she turns away from him and heads back deeper inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo glances at him uneasily, and nods reassuringly when John tells him: “Be right back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John follows Cyn into Kenwood. He doesn’t know how he knows where she’ll be, but he turns into the kitchen and she’s there at the dinner table. He realizes this is where they were when he’d told her that there had been other women in their marriage. He sits down opposite her. He wants to reach out and touch her, but he isn’t sure if that’s right, so instead, he lays his hand out, palm-up, on the table and lets her come to him if she’d like to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes a deep breath and she shakes with it. “That seemed so easy,” she tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks up at him and John’s proven right: she’s crying. She sets her hand in his and lets him squeeze his fingers around her own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she whispers miserably. “It just feels like…” She shakes her head at herself so John gives her fingers another gentle squeeze. “It feels like we deserve a better ending.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks she might. He can’t say the same for himself. He realizes just how much he’s taken from her over the years and feels like he could choke on it. “I’m sorry,” he manages. He thinks he should tell her that this isn’t an ending. He doesn’t want it to be. But it doesn’t feel fair. She’s put a lot of work into accepting this as an ending, saying differently would just nullify it all. “I still love you,” he says instead, because the truth of it is too heavy to go unsaid. He can’t hold onto it, not when she’s saved his life. “I think I always will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods and a few of her tears finally spill out onto her cheeks. She wipes at them, her skin going pink with embarrassment. He shakes his head at her and leans forward so he can wipe at the tears himself. She offers him a shy smile, so John smiles back. He doesn’t know who moves first, but before he knows what’s happened, they’ve kissed one another. He imagines it was probably him, but he hopes it wasn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When John pulls away, he sees that Cyn’s eyes are still closed, like she means to be memorizing the way his lips feel against hers. He thinks he’d like to do the same. He suddenly wonders if he’ll ever be able to find someone who loves him as much as she does and the thought makes him feel foolish and lonely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to go,” he tells her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls away and their hands remain clasped together until the last possible moment. She gives his fingers one final tug and smiles up at him as he ducks into the sitting room on his way to the front door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo’s already behind the wheel when John steps outside, the car’s even already running, and John’s glad for it. He clambers into the passenger seat, ignoring the way Rich is watching him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John turns away from him, stares out his passenger side window; his arms crossed over his chest, he tells him: “Let’s go,” and Ringo does as commanded, he puts the car in reverse and John watches Kenwood grow smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror until it’s a size he can actually imagine belonging to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo drops the box in his hands as soon as he steps inside the new flat. He takes a look around the place. Alastair had organized some purchases for the larger pieces of furniture, so it isn’t totally empty, but it’s still completely void of any personal touches. John feels himself blush slightly. It isn’t much of a grown-up apartment yet. He imagines, even though it’s a hell of a lot cleaner, it isn’t much different than the flat he’d shared with Stu in Liverpool. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nice,” Ringo placates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still in decor mode,” John says, as though that will make it better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rings nods then gestures towards the two boxes they’ve brought in with them. “Plenty of knick-knacks to come Kenwood, aye?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Over time, I suppose,” John allows. He takes his box deeper into the sitting room. He sets it down on one of the side tables next to the sofa. Then, he sits down in one of the arm chairs, bounces a few times against the cushion and has to give it to Alastair: it’s pretty quality stuff. It would do, for now, until he’s able to fill the place with things that are more to his style. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s the sofa?” Ringo asks, inspecting it the same way John had done with the armchair. John smiles; he imagines there’s probably more adult ways to test furniture, but neither of them have found it yet. “It’s not bad, actually,” Ringo says, bemused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither’s this,” John tells him, giving the chair another bounce. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They swap positions just to confirm the other’s conclusion. Then, Ringo makes himself properly comfortable. He leans back against the chair, crosses one leg over the other and spreads his hands down towards the end of the chair’s arms. “Do you think you’ll like London?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs. “I reckon I’ll like not having to wake up with the sun to get to work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo has to allow that. Then, he’s back up on his feet. He goes to the window and peers down to the street beneath them. John decides to join him. It bustles about as much as it had the first time he’d been here with Cynthia. “Seems quiet,” Ringo observes. “Private,” he adds and John gives him another nod. Privacy had been a deciding factor in the both of them getting out of the city in the first place. “How’s Cyn about it?” he asks gently, having seen her face back in the doorway at Kenwood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs, shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “She’s alright, you know,” he mumbles. “She’d like me to stay, but it just didn’t feel right.” Ringo nods. “That’s what separation is, isn’t it?” he asks, and he suddenly isn’t so sure. “You separate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I reckon that’s a part of it,” Ringo says, then offers him a shy laugh. Then, he looks down at his hands, fussing with the hem of his shirt. “And the kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath, decides on: “He knows I’m still around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That must be hard, mate,” Ringo mumbles, his eyes forward and distant. John realizes he can’t picture himself being away from Zak or Jason, and he doesn’t want to try. John suddenly wonders if this has all been some selfish thing; some half-cooked idea that let him have whatever he wanted, but nothing for anybody else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose he’s used to it,” John allows. “With the tours and all that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose,” Ringo says, though John can tell he doesn’t actually agree with him. Then, he grins up at John, hoping to revert them to levity. “Well, are you gonna show me around, or what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles back, puts his arm around Ringo and turns him back towards the sofa and the arm chairs. “That’s half of it done, son,” he says, gesturing across the largest room he’s got here. It isn’t much to write home about. Not like Paul’s flat in St. John’s Wood. It does the job, but that’s about it. And that’s all it’s meant to do. Until the divorce is finalized and all the finances are settled, John supposes he’ll just have to get used to a little practicality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo gives him a little shove, then heads off to the back hallway. He glances in the first room: the loo, then shrugs, before he heads to the second. It’s the master bedroom, so he steps inside. John follows him and he’s glad to see that there’s a bed already set up for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blimey,” Ringo muses, then tosses himself down on the mattress. “You’ve been well looked after, haven’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs, sits down on the edge of the mattress and has to allow that he has been. He suddenly wonders what Brian had told Alastair or Peter Brown about the two of them. Did they know? “Comes with being the favourite Beatle,” he says, because it’s too much to admit that other people may be able to see his bereavement for what it is without him telling them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up with that,” Ringo says, rolling his eyes. He reaches up for one of the pillows, finds it to be both soft and firm, so he tosses it John’s way. “Bloody down pillows, even,” he accuses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John laughs, gives the pillow an experimental squeeze and finds it to be true. “I told you: favourite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo goes to the window, gives the place another inspection and finds that this window looks down into the back garden, rather than the street. He seems to soften a bit, then points down at something. “Looks like you’ve been left with an herb garden,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A what?” John asks and strides over to meet him. John looks down where Ringo’s pointed and sees that a small section of the garden has been cordoned off into a small greenhouse-type structure. He doesn’t recognize what’s growing inside, but Ringo must. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do some proper cooking with all that,” Ringo says and he sounds so pleased that John thinks he might just try to. He can’t remember the last proper meal he’s cooked himself. Had he ever? Then Ringo nods, as if he’s just come to a conclusion. He says: “I think this will be good for you,” and it makes John grin. He hopes it will be too. “And you know if you ever need anything, I can always bring a few things in from home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John says because it’s easier than saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a bottle of red wine waiting for them in the kitchen, with a note from Alastair and Peter: something about a housewarming gift, but John thinks that all they’ve already done for him is enough of a gift. Ringo snatches it up playfully, reads the label. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least they cheaped out on the wine,” he tells John. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never known you to be fussy about wine, Richard Starkey,” John says, snatching it back. He reads the label and doesn’t even know what it is; he realizes Ringo probably doesn’t either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There aren’t any wine glasses, so they drink out of the few tea cups John had brought along with him. They sit on opposite ends of the sofa, their legs outstretched towards one another. John digs his toes into the space between Ringo’s thigh and the back of the couch. He smiles, warmed by the red wine in his belly. It’s a taste of a new life, John realizes. It’s that space he’s been looking for: with someone who has proven over and over that he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>dislike</span>
  </em>
  <span> him, even though he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is </span>
  <em>
    <span>continuing</span>
  </em>
  <span> to see him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As John polishes off the last of the wine into their glasses, he waves the empty bottle at Ringo and asks: “Should we get more, or are you settled?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo lays his head back against the couch and closes his eyes. There’s a small grin on his face and John knows his answer before he even says it: “I’m settled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” John mutters, making himself comfortable too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trying to drink less,” Ringo mumbles distractedly. When Ringo opens his eyes to gauge John’s reaction, John simply raises his eyebrows. A Liverpool lad never talks about how much alcohol they drink. Doing so might mean admitting to a problem. “I reckon I won’t drink at all eventually.” John hears himself laugh, then shuts up real quick when Ringo shoots him a serious look. When he sees John’s apology written all over his face, Ringo just offers him a noncommittal shrug. “Can’t predict the future, I suppose, but I reckon that’s what I’ll be working up to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath. He glances out the window, watching the street distantly, thinking: “You know,” he starts with a bemused grin. “I’ve probably had a drink every day since I was thirteen years old.” Ringo nods; he’s the same way and John finally sees that for what it is, for what Ringo sees it as: a problem. “Blimey, when you put it like that…” Ringo smiles, then digs into his pockets for a cigarette. John smiles: you can’t expect a man to rid himself of all of his vices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo must catch him because he smiles back and says: “Haven’t you heard? Smoking’s healthy again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” John answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo takes a long drag and then John realizes he must not be finished on the subject, because he says: “Lately, I’ve just been getting angry when I have too much whiskey in me.” John swallows hard. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lately?</span>
  </em>
  <span> John had always been that way. He chews on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t like that. So I wanna stop and I wanna figure out what I’m actually so angry about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John scoffs, then he reaches out for one of Ringo’s smokes from the packet he’s left out on the coffee table. “Let me save you some trouble,” John tells him bitterly. “It’s your dear Dad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo smiles — candid, but sad. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ve done their number on us,” John adds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And look at us now,” Ringo says, without missing a beat. And he means it all. He means everything John’s been angry about too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Look at us now</span>
  </em>
  <span>: rich and famous and creative and miserable. John’s too in his head about it, he almost misses it when Ringo tells him: “Me and Mo went to some counsellor.” John’s eyes shoot up towards him. He hasn’t admitted to anything, but he still feels caught in something. He thinks of Dr. Murphy and the thought of speaking her name out loud in front of anyone who wasn’t Cynthia makes him sick with nerves. “She knew Brian, you know, but she knew it was hitting me differently.” Ringo looks up at him, just to check in and make sure saying Brian’s name didn’t do any real damage. John just nods. “She wanted to make sure we worked it out together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks of Cynthia that night in bed, after he’d told her he’d find someone to talk to. It had saved her life, but it had saved John’s too, and that had been the point of it all. She’d made him do it for himself, knowing full-well that he was still leaving her. “What did we ever do to deserve these women, aye?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo smiles fondly. He doesn’t understand the extent of its truth, but he agrees with it all the same. “I ask myself that every day.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It goes quiet and John knows it’s the perfect time to bring up the work he’s done with Dr. Murphy, but something doesn’t let him. He wires his mouth shut and traces a line down the handle of his teacup. He can feel Rich watching him; he knows his friend has something to say, so he tries to give John the time. But John realizes it won’t work. There’s this deep-rooted shame inside of him, strangling the sound of his own voice. He thinks of Brian: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want you to tell them</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Rich says, breaking the silence. “If you ever wanted to talk to someone too, I bet I could get a referral.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John just nods curtly and he reckons that Ringo might think he’s judging him, and he hates it, but right now, he’d prefer him think </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> then know the truth. “Yeah, maybe,” he manages, and it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, but Rich still ends up sleeping with John in his bedroom, rather than out on the couch. John falls asleep with the weight of another body next to him and he wonders how he’ll ever get on without it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve had quite a week,” Mary tells him as soon as he sits down at his next session. John smiles derisively: </span>
  <em>
    <span>she doesn’t even know the whole of it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He wonders how much he should tell her. The move, his visit with Mimi, the photographs of Brian Clive had given him. “Do you want to talk about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs, he absently reaches out for one of the throw pillows on the sofa. He hugs it to his chest and shrugs. “I almost had another one of those panic things,” he says dismissively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When?” she asks gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“During the memorial,” he allows. “I wanted to leave, but I knew I shouldn’t, you know?” Mary nods. “And religion makes me uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’s that?” she asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John raises her eyebrows at her. He wants to say: </span>
  <em>
    <span>because I’m a queer divorcee who plays rock and roll for a living</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “You devout or something?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she says with a shrug. “I just think it’s interesting that you’ve brought it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Interesting?” Mary shrugs. He feels himself bristle with anger, the way he always does when he talks about religion for too long. He takes another deep breath and beyond being a queer bloke going through a divorce, he decides to tell her: “The most time I’ve spent in churches or whatever are for funerals, so.” She nods. “They don’t exactly fill me with faith and hope and all that.” She nods again and then writes something down onto her notepad. He narrows his eyes at her, leans forward slightly to see if he can peek at what she’s written. “What exactly’s so interesting here, Doc?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Religion makes you angry,” she observes and he hates that she’s right. And he hates that her calling him out on his anger makes him angrier. She studies him calmly, sees the way his lips are pursed tightly together and how his shoulders are set, as though he were ready to fight if anybody challenged him to. “I’m just wondering when you might ask yourself what you’re not getting from it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John suddenly sees the notebook she’d given him during his first visit. The two columns inside: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stressor</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Unfulfilled Need</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d left it on top of his dresser. He hasn’t written in it a few days; he realizes he hasn’t felt angry enough. He’s just been sad. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, means to tell her that he doesn’t want to talk about this, but instead, hears himself say: “I don’t like to put my faith in institutions that don’t care about me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you put your faith in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath. His first instinct now is to say: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brian</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He supposes he does all the things with Brian that Catholics do with God, or Jesus, or whatever. He thinks of him before he sleeps, he thinks about what he might think of his actions. Then, he thinks: Paul and Cynthia. The people who love me. But he thinks it sounds so wishy-washy, so instead he tells her: “Nothing. No one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does that make you feel lonely?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> John tells her and they both know it’s a lie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John,” she says, placing her clipboard down on the coffee table. She looks at him placatingly. “I can’t help you with the things you want help with if you’re not honest with me.” John feels something simmer deep down inside of him. He wants to tell her he’s being perfectly honest, but he imagines it won’t get them anywhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What am I being dishonest about?” he asks her through gritted teeth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Figure it out</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Figure it out so I don’t have to tell you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She keeps her eyes on him and he sees them soften. He realizes that shame must look the same on any man’s face. That fear of not being accepted laid lines in his skin, lines people could see if they just really cared to look. He realizes he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to put his faith in something so terribly. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to believe in something so staunchly that it gives him a reason to get up every day, but religion had failed him when it told him that the way he and Brian loved one another was the one thing they wouldn’t be able to find salvation from. He thinks of Brian and wonders if God ever really accepted him, if he was alone somewhere, as hated in the afterlife as he had been living. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought makes him cry before he even realizes what’s happened. He hides his face in his hands and tries to instead picture Brian in his bed in Montagu Square, alive and loved. He never wants to remember him any other way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John,” Mary whispers to him. She must know he’s realized himself what he’s been so dishonest about. “John, whatever it is, do you want to tell me?” She’s nearly just said Paul’s words back to him and he stutters on the thought. Paul had told him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever it is, it’s okay.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Would that be true for Mary too? Or, would this be something she couldn’t stomach, as either a professional or as a person?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you promise you’ll still see me?” he asks, still unable to look at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says stalwartly and John isn’t convinced she means it, not until she reaches out and touches her hand to his knee. Her touch reminds him of Julia. He realizes home had always been a place where people weren’t afraid to touch him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was never honest with you about Brian,” he tells her. His eyes still down low, he watches her hand on his knee. He thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>please don’t pull away</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and tells her: “He wasn’t my friend. I was in love with him.” He watches her fingers, doesn’t see them flinch, and exhales sharply when he realizes that it’s been long enough now that he knows she </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He looks up at her and he can’t immediately read her. She doesn’t look afraid, she doesn’t look surprised; she looks proud and unaffected at the same time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he love you back?” she asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows down a sob and starts to nod. “Yes,” he manages, but it still hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t been enough to keep him alive. And he thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t you see what I mean? The universe hates me.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head, generously empathetic. “I’m sorry,” she tells him, and John can tell that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>does see</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Love or no love, the universe had decided to make it unfair. “Have you been holding onto all this yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs helplessly. “At first,” he allows. She sighs heavily, hands him a tissue, and he thinks she might just be doing it so she can lay her hand on his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you feel lighter?” she asks. “Having told me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And John realizes that he does. He feels that same lightness he had immediately after he’d told the lads. He realizes just how heavy he’d felt at the beginning. He takes a deep breath and doesn’t feel anything catch in his throat, so he says: “Yes,” and he looks up to find Mary smiling down at him. She’s glad for it, and still unafraid to touch him. “It helps every time I tell someone,” he says and her smile grows. He realizes that’s what she’s been trying to teach him all along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sits back down opposite him. “How have they been taking it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone’s been good so far,” he allows. He thinks of Paul and realizes that that doesn’t even begin to cover it. He thinks of their trip to Paris and, not for the first time, wonders what it might all mean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you told everyone you’d like to tell?” she asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs, pictures Mimi back at Mendips and shakes his head. “I haven’t told my Auntie yet,” he allows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary nods, tells him: “Our parents are generally the most difficult people to tell things to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles weakly and wonders if he’ll be that way with Julian. He doesn’t want that, but he also doesn’t know how to be any different. Especially now that they weren’t living together. Would Julian ever feel the same way about sharing things with his father as he had that morning before Brian’s memorial, sharing his train set? “I think Mimi is her own brand of difficult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary smiles fondly; John imagines that everyone she’s spoken to has probably said something similar about their own mothers. “You don’t think she would understand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs helplessly. “I suppose she’d come around eventually,” he tells her. “She didn’t want me to play the guitar. She didn’t want me to get married. I did all those things anyway, and she still liked to spend time with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re scared this might be different,” she supplies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the things she doesn’t like about me,” he says. He takes a deep breath and wonders if he can manage to get through this. “They’re all just things that I’ve done. You know?” Mary nods reassuringly. “She could look at all those things and still tell herself that it wasn’t about who or what I was.” He swallows hard, imagines Mimi looking at him and actually not recognizing him anymore. And not in that disappointed way mothers would tell their sons: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know you anymore</span>
  </em>
  <span> when they got in too much trouble at school. She wouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. She’d think he’d been lying to her all this time. “This would change everything,” he finishes solemnly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary looks down at her hands in her lap. She considers everything he’s said; she doesn’t seem stumped, just careful. “I think that’s a very valid fear,” she tells him and he feels something well up in his chest. “And even though it’s something you fear, I want you to remember what I think your friends have already told you: this </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> change anything.” And he knows that to be true. It had already proven true, especially with Paul and George. His friends, who had known all along, and hadn’t even hinted that they might. “You’re still you,” she continues. “You’re still the same boy she raised and loved. And if she can’t understand that, it won’t be because you’ve shown her too much. It will be a journey for her to decide to take or not take.” He swallows hard, wants to nod, but he can’t help but wonder if he could save this whole thing by just holding onto it. He could swallow it down whole and never let Mimi see it, even if it ate him from the inside out. “John?” she urges gently. He decides to look up at her and sees her smile at him sadly. “There will always be some people who decide not to take that journey, and sometimes, those people aren’t who we want them to be. Sometimes, they’re our family.” John takes a deep breath and thinks of Clive Epstein. This feeling, this </span>
  <em>
    <span>refusal</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the journey Brian offered them, was something that Brian had lived with every day. John wonders how he did it. John wonders how he hadn’t seen how much it hurt him. “But can you tell me you understand that it won’t be your fault?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John worries a hole into his cheek. He fidgets with his hands and says: “okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her hand at him. “Can you tell me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard. She keeps her protective eyes on him and he knows there isn’t a way around this, so he tells her: “I understand it isn’t my fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She offers him a tight smile, leans back in her seat and gives him more homework: “I want you to say that as many times as it takes for you to believe it.” He nods, then watches as she stands and collects her clipboard from the coffee table. “Do you want to take five minutes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels himself exhale a breath and realizes just how relieved he is to hear her say that. He nods quickly, then pats down his pockets for a cigarette. She nods over her shoulder towards the door and he knows he’s being excused. He tears through the door, lighting his cigarette, even before he’s made it outside. He sits himself down on the front steps of the building. His first breath fills his lungs with fresh autumn air; his second fills him with smoke. He thinks he’d rather needed both. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hugs his knees up towards his chest for a little more warmth and finds himself trying to remember what the autumn weather had been like in Paris. He closes his eyes, realizes that six years ago today, he was with Paul on some French street somewhere poorly ordering them both espressos that they’d dead hated when they first arrived. He wonders where they’ll stay this time around. The tours had generally taken them to George V, but something didn’t feel right about that. John doesn’t remember the name of the dinky hotel they’d found their first trip. He doesn’t even think he noticed a name, all he’d seen was the price of a bed and they’d both dashed for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if they’d share a bed this time around too. The tours had them separated into different rooms: John remembers being with Ringo one year and George another. He wonders if they’d done it on purpose, somehow, subconsciously. What version of Paris did Paul miss the most? John thinks about the way Paul had laid his head down on John’s shoulder at Brian’s memorial, how he’d done the same in France and hopes like hell that Paul misses the version of Paris where they spent a night in front of a river, drinking champagne until the both of them could barely see the boy they loved in front of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wishes he were in Paris right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have to miss our next session,” John tells Mary as soon as he steps back inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It gives her pause; John imagines she must be wondering if he was beginning to pull away. That feels like something she might have had to deal with before: a client overshares and then begins to disappear completely. “Oh?” she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be away,” he explains. “It’s a work thing,” he adds, even though it’s a lie, and he isn’t sure why he’s just said it when he knows full-well he won’t be working at all. He realizes he could have just left it alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You feel comfortable missing a session?” she asks, and John furrows his brow at her, just for a moment, before he feels a pool of nerves in his stomach. He realizes just how much he’s spent looking forward to the next moment they had with one another. Knowing he would be back in this room eventually sometimes helped him remember how to breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so,” he mumbles, though now he isn’t so sure. But he supposes: “I won’t be alone. Paul will be there with me,” he tells her, and he thinks he sees her lean slightly towards him. He suddenly finds himself wondering how many times he’s said Paul’s name inside these four walls. He imagines it’s a close second to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brian</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds exciting,” she placates. “Where will the two of you be going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve got to shoot something in Nice,” he says with a shrug. “Then, we’ll head up to Paris and back to London that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just the two of you?” she says and she adds an inflection to make it seem like a question, but John can tell it’s an observation. “What about the others?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just Paul in the bit of the film,” he says, realizing she’d made him feel as though he were hiding something. “I think he just wanted some company, so he asked me along.” For a split second, he considers telling her about their previous trip to Paris, but then thinks better of it. He wires his mouth shut and glances out the window across the car park. He feels warm with Mary’s eyes on him. She knows there’s something he isn’t telling her. “Oh,” he says flippantly, meaning to change the subject. “I’ve moved out of the house with Cyn,” he tells her. She raises her eyebrows at him. “He’s probably just worried about me spending so much time alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve moved out,” she repeats. John nods, shrugging his shoulders. He keeps his eyes on her and thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>please just take the bait.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “That’s a big decision I didn’t even realize you were in the middle of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath, continuing tactlessly with dismissal. “Am I meant to run things by you before I do anything?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, no,” she stammers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what’s the problem?” She pauses and takes him all in. He realizes that there is a short list of people in his life he shouldn’t fight with, and she sits somewhere near the top. When John doesn’t admit that he knows what the problem is, she glances down at her clipboard and begins to write something down. He bristles without meaning to. “I asked you a question,” he seethes. “Can you answer me instead of treating me like something you’re dissecting?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She puts her pencil down and clasps her hands together in her lap. “It’s the same problem we always have, John,” she tells him, and John feels himself go hot at her tone. He clenches his jaw smartly and decides to look away from her. He realizes he wants a drink. He wants something to do with his hands. “I can’t help you with the things you don’t tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I don’t always need your help,” he smarts. He hears Mimi in front of him and hates it: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you need changing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Mary sighs heavily and John realizes she’d allow a statement like that if it were true and it makes him angrier, it makes him feel embarrassed. “I’m not a child,” he tells her, before he realizes that maybe he is. Maybe, after all these years, he still is. Because, Christ, he feels five years old again. Both his mother and father in front of him. Making him decide the sort of boy he wants to be: a musical boy with red hair from Liverpool, or a sweet boy with rough, hard-working hands from Wellington. They’d thought they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>helping him</span>
  </em>
  <span> too. They weren’t, they were just forcing him into something he didn’t want to do. “People are always making me do things I don’t want to do,” he says petulantly. “Thinking that they’re helping me, but they’re just making it worse. I don’t need fixing,” he tells her adamantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you’re broken —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mind stops racing when he realizes what she’s said, but his mouth takes a moment to catch up. “I just want people to —” He goes still. He’d never said that word: </span>
  <em>
    <span>broken</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but he realizes he’s never had to. He realizes it’s all always come down to that:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mimi could hate me and she’d be right to because I’m broken. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t deserve the soft ending that Cynthia does because I’m broken. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Paul could love me all he wants, but it would never be enough because I’m broken. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>George and Julia and Stuart and Brian: they’ve left me broken. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you’re less observant than I ever thought you were,” he tells her, and he thinks that sort of belittlement should </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> her. It should make her want to turn him away, cross his name off her client sheet and never think of him again. She sets her clipboard facedown on the coffee table, as far away from her as she can manage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve made you a promise this session, John,” she tells him sternly. “I’ll not stop seeing you.” John swallows hard; he feels what he knows is relief rising up through his throat. “That decision will always be yours to make. Nothing you say here will be enough to push me away,” she tells him, and he suddenly thinks of himself after Julia had died. Saying nasty things to anyone who wished to help him, just because he could. Just because he wanted to test their limits and see just how much they were willing to put up with before deciding that loving him wasn’t worth the risk. “I’m not leaving you to carry this all on your own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say that to me,” he hisses, feeling that relief turn black and be quickly replaced with something else entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why shouldn’t I?” John just shakes his head. “Why shouldn’t I say that to you? Are you afraid I don’t mean it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everybody </span>
  <em>
    <span>means</span>
  </em>
  <span> it,” he tells her. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> everyone who has said it to him has meant it, but it doesn’t matter. It’s never been enough. He takes a deep breath. He hears the way it shakes, so Mary must too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you been letting who’s left inside, John?” she asks him. He closes his eyes. “Have you been making that small space bigger?” He tries to picture that box he’s kept himself in all his life, tries to see that Paul and Cynthia and Rich and George are still inside of it with him. He nods his head and then hears the way she’s breathing. He’s meant to track with her, so he does. He does until he doesn’t have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> to picture his friends with him. He feels them around him, knows them to be there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why I want to go to Paris,” he manages. She nods. “That’s why I want to go with Paul.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods again, then takes a deep breath. “John, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to know that I’m not accusing you of anything.” He feels his chest constrict, but he nods all the same. “And I want you to know that I’m only asking it in a way that I hope will help you understand your own feelings and motivations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you love Paul the way you loved Brian?” she asks, and her voice is gentle, but it still makes John’s throat go dry. He thinks of Paul in Paris, again in Jacksonville, Florida, and then in Paul’s living room on Cavendish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I say yes, will you tell me I shouldn’t go?” he says, but he can’t get his voice up much higher than a whisper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she tells him honestly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, yes,” he admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods carefully. “Does he know?” John shakes his head. “Then, I want you to understand that you may be looking for different things to come of this trip.” John swallows hard, seeing himself imagining the two of them in Paris, imagining Paul loving him back, and how it had warmed him in a way he couldn’t explain. He wonders what Paul might be imagining him doing in Paris. Did it have anything to do with loving him? He feels his cheeks start to go pink. “He can’t read your mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He can though,” John says with a dry laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head at him. “He </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> she insists, and John finds himself marvelling at what he must have been expecting of Paul all these years, then. How exhausting it must be to appear as a mind reader without actually being one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want me to tell him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you to understand that it wouldn’t be fair to be angry with someone for not responding to something you haven’t actually said,” she tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” he mutters, because it makes sense. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> it makes sense, but Paul’s always been able to see him without John asking. That’s what made them so special. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do worry about you missing a session,” she finally allows and John wonders how long she’d been holding onto that one. He raises his eyebrows at her. “But if you think this is something that will be good for the both of you, then I want you to do it.” He nods, even though he suddenly feels nervous about the whole thing. “But please,” she says, and it makes John smile. She looks just like a mother ought to, sending a trouble-making boy off to a new school. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t take a vacation from the things we’ve learned together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still smiling, John nods. “I won’t,” he promises, and he thinks he means to keep it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>George seems to be inspecting the shirts John’s choosing to pack with him for Nice. He frowns at one in particular; it’s nice in a I-mean-to-be-impressive sort of way. He glances up at John and lifts it back out of his case. He holds it out to John and raises his eyebrows quizzically. “You two planning on going out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels himself start to blush. He snatches the shirt away from George and immediately refolds it. Shrugging, he tells him: “Just thought I’d be prepared.” He leaves out the fact that Paul once told him it was his favourite shirt of John’s, that they’d passed it back and forth all last summer. John likes the idea of Paul wearing his clothes; he hopes he might ask to borrow it again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem nervous,” George observes. John shrugs again, but something inside of him goes stiff. He places the shirt back in his case, and George tacks on: “Like Spain nervous,” and that makes John pause. He glances up at George; they’re both frozen there. George doesn’t seem to be backing down, but John isn’t anywhere near ready to admit he might be right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What have I got to be nervous about?” John asks, but he realizes his voice hasn’t got any bite. He realizes George knows that too. “It’s just Paul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” George drawls, shifting himself further up the bed towards the pillow. “It’s just Paul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s eyes shoot back down towards his case, simply because he can’t take the scrutiny. He fidgets with the clothing already packed away, but can’t stop thinking of the version of himself who’d told George he liked to kiss men in the Top Ten Club in Hamburg. He’d never thought to ask George how specific he got. Did he ever tell him </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span> he liked to kiss? Or, who he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> to kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What else did I tell you in Germany?” John hears himself ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds his breath, feels George watching him closely. “You told me you thought you could love him,” he says simply and John feels winded by it. He feels something like shame and embarrassment rush over him. He turns away from George, grabs another one of his shirts; he doesn’t even take a close look at it, then balls it up and stuffs it into his case. The way he’s aggressive where he’d once been so gentle makes George sit up. “Hey,” he says. He ignores the way John shakes his head at him, instead, he rises to his knees and crawls closer to John’s case at the edge of the bed and reaches out to grab and hold onto his wrist. “Hey,” he says again, this time a little more purposeful. It makes John look up at him. “I thought we were where we could talk about this shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John tries to tug his hand away from George, but George won’t let him, so he says, “we are,” in hopes that it might let him off the hook. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then don’t disappear on me,” George tells him, and John realizes just how badly he’d like to. He glances up at George and realizes that George isn’t looking away from it. “Were you right, then?” he asks. “Were you right that you could love him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard, thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t disappear, don’t disappear, don’t disappear</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so he nods, something small and quick, the way all confessions are. “Yes,” he manages, before he feels George’s grip on his wrist go gentle, like he means to knead at the pressure point there and make all these nerves go away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You love him now?” George asks quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I loved him then,” John admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George takes a deep breath, finally looks away, and John thinks he looks worried. “Do you mean to tell him? Is that what this trip is for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John goes red with how seen he feels. His eyes skirt down to the space between them and he feels himself shrug again. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “Maybe.” He steals a glance up at George and finds that now it’s George's turn to look away. He can’t take it all in anymore, and it makes John feel afraid. “You don’t think I should?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George shrugs. “I don’t know what he’ll say,” he allows. And John thinks of Mick back in that club on John’s birthday. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t get the vibe from Paul, do I?</span>
  </em>
  <span> John realizes that George doesn’t either. And he supposes that if there was anyone else in this world who might know Paul better than he does, it would be George. Not once, even when they were kids; Paul had never even made George wonder, not the way John evidently had made him wonder. All the long nights they’d spent in one another’s beds, Paul had never once fessed up to anything. Not like John had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Paul had held his hand that night, on his birthday. Paul had laid his head on John’s shoulder in front of the Seine. Paul had held him so close that they found space for one another between their eyes. Paul had </span>
  <em>
    <span>been to Alibi</span>
  </em>
  <span> and never told any of them about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head and he realizes he wishes that the mind meld between them he’d suspected was true. If Paul could read his mind, John would be able to read his mind back too. And he would </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d know if Paul loved him the way he wanted Paul to love him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just hope,” George continues quietly. John looks back up at him, sees him tracing lines along the comforter on John’s bed. “I just hope he doesn’t make you feel like you don’t want to play with him anymore. With </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he amends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It won’t affect the band,” John tells him, but George doesn’t buy it. “Whatever he says, I won’t let it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, mate,” George tells him, though he offers him a smile that also says something that Paul had told him once too: </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever happens, I’ll be here.</span>
  </em>
  <span> John smiles back, gives him a light shove, mutters: “shut up,” as he turns back to his case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George goes back to inspecting the things he’s packing, but something feels lighter between them. “You know,” George suddenly says. “The Maharishi’s invited us to India again. He’d really like us to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“February,” George tells him. John pictures the version of himself that could survive introspection, that could survive quiet moments in India without his own grief and paranoia eating him alive, and he realizes he’s close to being that person. Closing his eyes doesn’t seem to frighten him as much as it used to. He thinks of Brian and that doesn’t frighten him as much either. February was just long enough away that he thinks he could be that person by then. And thinking that doesn’t feel like a stretch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I reckon I’d be interested,” he allows, and that makes George sit up a little straighter. “I’ll run it by Paul while we’re away,” he adds, and it makes George smile. Again, he realizes how much he likes making people do that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John sleeps most of the trip to Nice. He sleeps in the car that takes them both to set. He sits himself low in a director’s chair, but finds he can’t sleep when Paul is in front of the camera. He sits up straighter, watching Paul on the monitor in front of him. He watches Paul, framed by the early morning sun and thinks that he must believe in religion of some kind, because Paul looks like an angel. Where they’ll be that night suddenly makes him nervous: he’ll be in Paris with an angel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul smiles at him whenever they call cut; his cheeks gone pink, the way they always do when he’s caught on a camera for too long. He tells the men around him what he wants, still makes them smile, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>gets it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He </span>
  <em>
    <span>gets what he wants</span>
  </em>
  <span>. John swallows hard when he realizes he’d give Paul anything he wants, and he’d probably smile about it too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s nearly early morning by the time they arrive in Paris and it reminds John of their first trip here, in the back of some stranger’s car, seeing the city lit-up against the night sky in front of them, edging closer and closer, feeling like everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somebody’s arranged their hotel and it isn’t George V, which John appreciates, but it’s still nicer than anything either of them might have chosen if they’d had any say in their travel arrangements. John realizes he hasn’t booked a hotel for himself in years. He glances at Paul once they’re up in their room and he thinks Paul must be realizing the same thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t make either of them feel that way they had their first night here, giggling with exhaustion and excitement. But it is nice, so Paul shrugs. He heads out to the balcony and John joins him. It’s a good enough view to make them both want to stay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow,” Paul mutters. “This city never gets old, does it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath, glances at Paul, and thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>not when you’re here with me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “No,” he mumbles back. “It doesn’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John wakes up the following morning and he knows exactly what day it is. He knows Paul does too. He sits up in bed and listens for any noise out in the main room. It’s quiet, so he ventures out. He glances at the door to Paul’s bedroom, still pulled tightly shut and doesn’t hear any noise from inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips into his shoes and heads down to the early-morning Parisian streets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s quiet down here too, and John thinks that’s fitting. Eleven years ago today, Paul lost Mary McCartney. The world should be quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds a little cafe for some croissants and coffee. He buys one with chocolate inside for Paul, and he’s sure he’s ordered a banana milkshake as well, but it’s been a while since he’s spoken any French. It’s too many things to carry; John chides himself all the way back up to their room, struggling with every door he passes through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shower’s running when John gets back upstairs. He sets everything down on the table in the kitchenette, sits down in one of the chairs and just waits. Eventually, the water shuts off, and the door clicks open. In an undershirt and pants, Paul steps out, towel-drying his hair. He pauses when he sees John at the table. Something passes between them, a mutual loss that doesn’t require any words, then Paul glances down at what John’s brought back in with him. John thinks there might be a smile somewhere on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I grabbed us some breakfast,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, then says: “Is that a milkshake?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John goes a bit red with it; he reaches out for the small plastic cup, wondering if he’s over-done it, but he nods anyway. “It is, aye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up at Paul and realizes that that </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a smile. So, John finds himself matching him. They grin across the room at one another, until Paul seems to fluster and look away. “Just let me get dressed,” he mumbles, and disappears before John can say anything back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sips at his espresso to hide the way he can’t seem to stop smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul sits down opposite him. He reaches out for the milkshake first, inspects it, then gives it a taste. John thinks it must work like a time machine because Paul smiles just the way he had the first time they were in this city with one another. Then, he reaches out for his coffee. They are adults now, after all, with addictions to caffeine and all that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He points at one of the croissants. “That one have chocolate in it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhmm,” John answers and that makes Paul blush again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I really that predictable?” he laments, but he snatches it up for himself anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” John tells him. At least, to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul smiles, then he tears off a piece of the chocolate croissant and hands it across the table to John. John takes it graciously and doesn’t even think about the fact that he shouldn’t be eating it. John watches Paul sip at the milkshake, letting the espresso go cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t get enough of those,” John observes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul smiles. “I can’t get enough of you buying them for me,” he shoots back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I just a deep pocket to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Paul answers. “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>two</span>
  </em>
  <span> deep pockets.” Smiling, Paul tosses the last bit of his croissant in his mouth and licks the chocolate off his fingers. John can’t help but watch him. Rubbing his hands together, Paul tells him: “I’m gonna have a smoke, you wanna join me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John just nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both climb onto Paul’s bed, lying flat on their backs. Paul’s feet hang off one side of the bed, John’s off the other. Their heads are right next to one another somewhere in the middle of the mattress. Paul lights them a joint, takes two long drags, then hands it off to John. John thinks he ought to let Paul have it all, but he knows Paul wouldn’t want to do this alone, not today. Neither of them say what the date means, but it hangs quietly over them, the way it always does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul starts to melt deeper into the mattress and John wonders if they should just stay like this all day. He thinks of all the places they’d gone on their first trip, how he’d wanted to go to all of those places again, but now, he realizes that they should just do whatever Paul is ready to do. And if that was lying on his back on a bed that didn’t belong to him, getting higher and higher every hour, then John would be game. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want to do today?” Paul suddenly asks as their fingers brush up against one another, passing the joint back and forth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John watches Paul inhale deeply, watches him close his eyes and hold all that smoke in his lungs, letting it tear through him, making everything it touches a little softer, a little fuzzier. “Dunno,” John manages. “Whatever you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul opens his eyes, throws a glance John’s way and John wonders if he feels he’s being pandered to. He takes another long inhale, means to hand the joint back to John, but John waves it off. “Bob took me to this gear gallery the last time I was here,” he says, and John feels something catch in his throat. He’d forgotten that Paul had come here with Robert Fraser once too. He goes red hot with it. He realizes that Paul might have been fond of the city for reasons that John wasn’t privy to. “Do you mind if we see what they’ve got? I wouldn’t mind bringing something back for him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard, but he forces himself to shake his head. “No,” he croaks. “That sounds good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t so much a gallery as it is a dealer’s office, John realizes once they arrive. There are a few pieces displayed, John goes to them immediately. Paul gets wrapped into a conversation with one of the dealers who recognizes him from his previous visit. John feels decidedly on the outside. He realizes that there are things that he’s never been able to offer Paul, things Paul so obviously really enjoyed. Music had become everything to him. There were other things in Paul’s life. John wanted to be a part of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves on to another painting and it reminds him of Stuart. The deep colours, the strangeness. He wonders where Stuart might be now if he’d lived. Would he be in Paris? Would he and Paul be here, gobbling up Sutcliffe pieces, spending an exorbitant amount of money for one of the most sought-after artists in Europe?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of this own art; the pieces he’d painted next to Stuart in their studio at Gambier Terrace. His stuff had always been so dreadfully lacking in comparison, but he was made better by Stuart, just by being next to him. He wonders where </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’d</span>
  </em>
  <span> be if Stuart had lived. Where would Stuart have been able to bring him? John had been twenty years old when he’d thought he’d found enlightenment next to Stuart Sutcliffe. What else would Stuart have helped him find? He realizes he’d be twenty-seven years old and just like the version of Julian he’s always hoped for: so loved that he doesn’t even have to think about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul joins him in front of one of the paintings. Both Bob and Stuart hang over them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling unsure of where he fits into this moment, John decides to make Paul laugh. It’s always been what he’s best at. He points to the painting in front of him: a hyper-realistic version of a pair of hands clasped together. It’s so good, it might as well be a photograph. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much better</span>
  </em>
  <span> than anything John could offer. Acknowledging that makes him feel small, so he says: “I could out-paint any of these losers.” Paul turns to look at him, already grinning. “I mean, the technique is just all off,” he says, gesturing to the way the brushstrokes perfectly blend together. “I’d be horrified to display this in my home,” he says before Paul gives him a nudge to shut him up. He glances over his shoulder at anyone who might be listening to them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Paul hisses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I went to the Liverpool College of Art,” John argues. “I can say this sort of stuff.” Still smiling, Paul shakes his head at him. “You gonna buy anything?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think so,” Paul allows. “There’s this artist from Lyon Bob really likes. He hasn’t got anything in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” John mutters. He thinks he must sound bitter, but he can’t help himself. “Unfortunate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul looks back at the painting, tilts his head one way to study it even closer, then he sighs. “I did always like your stuff,” he says. John feels himself blush; he keeps his eyes square on the painting in front of him, even forces himself to become enthralled in the ornate frame around the painting. He nods, just to acknowledge that he’s heard him, but he doesn’t know quite what to say. “You made me want to become a painter myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that, John can’t ignore. He looks at Paul and sees a whole other life: one where they’d stayed here, in Paris, and painted with one another. “I bet you’d be good,” John tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul just shrugs. “It doesn’t come easy,” he allows. “Not like songs, I suppose.” He takes another deep breath, then side-steps John and takes a look at the next painting. John follows him. This one’s a mad portrait. Colours and shapes are all where they aren’t meant to be. It feels like it could live somewhere inside of him. John inhales deeply and realizes that Paul’s just done the same thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve always dug artists,” he says, then he must wonder if he’s said too much, because he clears his throat and takes a step back from the painting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose you have,” John says, remembering Paul hanging out in Gambier Terrace, always tearing into the studio before anywhere else to see what John and Stuart had been working on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Artists know how to tell you how they feel,” Paul says. He swallows hard, seeming to lace every word with intention. “They show you,” he says, gesturing back towards the portrait, and John thinks he knows what he means. “I don’t feel like I’m being made to guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That strikes a nerve before John can process why. He looks down at his feet and wonders if that makes him less of an artist. He’s spent his whole life making people guess what he really feels, Paul most of all. He’s been forcing Paul to read his mind, when all Paul really wanted was to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be told</span>
  </em>
  <span>. John remembers the twenty-one year old version of himself staring at Paul on the balcony of their hotel, admitting for the first time: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and hoping that Paul would somehow hear him. But Paul had just wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be told</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paul hums a tune that night in front of the television that John’s never heard before. Paul thrums with it, committing it to memory. His energy makes John antsy, like he ought to be writing something too. He realizes he’s been antsy since they were in that gallery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I make you guess, Paul?” John suddenly asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tune leaves Paul almost immediately. He glances up at John from where he’s laid himself low against the couch cushions. John realizes he must be doing the math of  just how long that question must have been weighing on him. He sits up, shifts gingerly closer. “No,” Paul answers honestly. Then amends: “You make me think.” John isn’t sure he knows what he means, but he nods anyway. “I think you ought to make me feel like I’m guessing, but I don’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks at him and Paul doesn’t look away; it makes John lose his breath somewhere in his throat. He realizes that neither of them could look away, even if they wanted to. They were being moulded together, the way they always did when they looked into one another’s eyes. They were finding home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I look at you,” Paul marvels, and John feels himself exhale. “And I feel like you’ve told me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, thinks about all the secrets he’s kept from Paul all his life, and wonders if Paul had known them all along. Maybe he hadn’t even realized he knew, but he had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think you would have known about me and Brian, even if I hadn’t told you?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That feels too precious a secret, so Paul looks away; he shrugs, even though John thinks his answer might be ‘yes’. “I don’t know,” he allows. “Sometimes,” he mutters, coming up with words on the fly. John can tell Paul hates it, that he hasn’t taken the time to fully articulate all this, but he’s saying it anyway. “Sometimes I feel like we pass feelings back and forth. Maybe you might have passed that to me too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pass feelings?” he asks. Then he sighs when he realizes he knows what Paul means. He thinks of himself, again, on that Parisian hotel balcony six years ago and wonders: </span>
  <em>
    <span>have I shown you everything already?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Paul says. “I mean, if you walk into a room and you’re sad, I know. Because you pass it to me and I feel it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John allows, knowing full-well the weight of things he’s made Paul carry over the years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do too,” Paul urges. “That’s why you got me breakfast this morning.” John meets his eye again and something passes between them: something solid and loving, and he thinks he likes the way Paul’s love feels inside his chest. “How do you think I found you that day at the synagogue?” Paul asks and John feels his cheeks go hot. He blushes, but he doesn’t look away. “I could feel you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John scoffs, decides it’s too much to keep letting Paul stare deep inside of him. He shakes his head ruefully. “Am I foghorn, or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes,” Paul says, and he means it sweetly, but John still feels embarrassed by it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul looks away now too, troubled that he’s maybe offended him. He heaves a deep sigh, then begins humming that new tune again. John likes it; he wonders what part he’ll play in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds good,” he tells Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul just shrugs. “I knew I should have brought my guitar,” he says. “I don’t want to lose it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw a piano on our way in,” John says, and Paul looks at him quickly, wide-eyed. “Down in the lobby, maybe they’ll let us use it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think they might?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know who you are, don’t you?” John asks with a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s right; the concierge at the front desk gives it everything he’s got to keep from smiling when they both set their elbows down on the desk in front of them expectantly. “Piano?” Paul says, then he looks to John for a translation. Just shrugging, John says: “Piano,” with a little French flair and then looks to the concierge. “Puissons-nous jouer?” The concierge looks from Paul, to John, then back. He nods quickly, points out where it sits across the lobby, and Paul heads off before the concierge finishes telling them: “Mais, bien-s</span>
  <span>û</span>
  <span>r!” It makes John smile: the effect that they can still have on the people around them when they were happy and excited. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John scoots as close to Paul on the piano stool as he can manage. Paul presses down on a few keys, testing them out, then he smiles. He hums his new tune to himself, working out the chords quickly. He hits a snag and tries a few different chords, then John bats at his hands and finishes the line off for him. His hands find the chord Paul had been looking for. Paul nods, then he lays his hands on the keys, brushing up against John’s before he can pull them away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels his skin tingle where Paul’s touched him. He glances up and sees that Paul’s blushed with it too. He must be feeling the same type of way. John tugs his hands back down in his lap and then nods. “That feels right,” he tells Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods again, tinkers on the keys quietly, humming just softly enough that John knows the song is just for the two of them. Paul smiles at him when he hits the chord John’s found for him, then he shuts his eyes and lets the warmth of creation fall all over him. The warmth of creation </span>
  <em>
    <span>with John</span>
  </em>
  <span>. John watches him and wonders how he’d ever been lucky enough to be the man sitting next to Paul McCartney while he does this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’s finished, Paul sets his hands down in his lap too, mirroring John. “I’ve got it now,” he concludes. “The chords are in me head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, proud to have been a part of it. He wonders what words Paul will put to the tune. Will it have anything to do with him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paul flips the newspaper he’s been reading down on the tiny cafe table they’ve found the following morning. He smiles at John, eyes still slightly sleepy. He downs what’s left of his espresso and shakes some energy down into his extremities. “So, where to, Lennon?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles: it’s their last day, he wants to make the most of it. “The Eiffel Tower,” John tells him, as though it were obvious. Paul raises his eyebrows at him. “Then, Montmartre and Notre Dame.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul starts to smile, catching on: “Just like last time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just like last time,” John confirms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John doesn’t mention that the day they spent in 1961 at the Eiffel Tower had ended with them next to one another at the Seine. With the way that Paul’s grinning at him, he thinks Paul might remember that anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tower is just as awe-inspiring from the bottom now as it had been then. John stares up at the iron structure and it all comes rushing back: the excitement of a new city, the love it brought out of him, and just how desperately he’d wanted to stay here forever with the boy next to him. He glances to his right and finds that its </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> Paul next to him and feels warmed by it. He realizes just how badly he wants to reach out and take Paul’s hand, right here, in front of anyone who might be watching them. He wants to kiss him. He wants to stay here forever, still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s exactly how I remember,” John says. Next to him, Paul nods. He mumbles a sweet agreement, then John asks: “Would you have stayed here with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Paul asks, glancing at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When we were here for my birthday, I remember wanting to stay here forever,” John explains. “No more Beatles, no more Liverpool. I just wanted to be in Paris.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a moment where Paul doesn’t say anything back, but then he speaks, and his voice sounds caught. “With me?” he manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels his cheeks go pink. He’s glad he’s got a man-made wonder of the world in front of him to keep his eyes on. He can feel Paul looking directly at him and thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>he must know what this all means.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Yeah,” he says sheepishly. “With you, Macca.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Paul makes him guess. He asks: “Why didn’t you ask me?” and his voice feels heavy and laced with the years missed as a frenchman with John beside him. John glances at him and for the first time since he’d thought about asking the question back in ‘61, he thinks Paul’s answer might have been ‘yes’. It makes him feel both sick and loved and he wonders why he always has to feel both. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I thought you’d tell me no,” John confesses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s finally Paul’s turn to look away. He looks down at the toe of his boot, kicks at some loose stones. John watches him stuff his hands deep into his jacket pockets, hiding himself from what he’s about to say. He shrugs helplessly and John knows that this means everything: “You could have made me do anything in those days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels himself exhale sharply and he tucks his eyes down towards their boots too. He chides himself: he’s at one of the most beautiful places in the world, next to the most beautiful boy, and he can’t look at anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Notre Dame and after Montmartre, they duck into a shop for a bottle of champagne. Paul had finally brought it up: the drink, the Seine, the sunset. They’d done it all before, but John couldn’t contain it all. He’d smiled broadly, grasped onto Paul’s wrist and pulled him into the nearest shop that looked like it might sell wine. And he doesn’t let Paul go, even lets his hand droop downward from Paul’s wrist, towards his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stand in front of the wall of champagne and John scans them all. He knows exactly what he’s looking for. Christ, it’s been six years, but he knows exactly what he’s looking for. His eyes finally find the familiar label and he snatches it from the shelf. He studies the sleek bottle in his hands and knows he’s right. He shows it to Paul and for a moment, Paul looks like he can’t breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t know you were so particular about your champagne,” Paul manages, as if it’s got anything to do with taste. John feels himself blush: it’s too long to have remembered such a small detail. Paul doesn’t remember this as closely as he does. Does he even remember laying his head on John’s shoulder? Does he remember shifting closer so they could lean up against one another as the sun dropped behind the river?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John just shrugs, considers putting it back and choosing one he knows is actually good, but he doesn’t want that. Even if Paul doesn’t remember, he thinks he wants this moment for himself. “You think you can stomach it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul shrugs back and he looks shy about it. “I reckon it’ll do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit themselves down at the edge of the river, their feet dangling over the precipice. They’re halfway through the bottle of champagne, passing it back-and-forth, drinking directly from the bottle like teenagers, when the sun starts to go down. John inhales deeply as the sky starts to turn orange and purple. He wants to paint, like he always wants to paint a sunset, as though there isn’t a show just like this at the end of every day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all exactly the way John remembers it: the colours, the water moving beneath them, Paul’s steady breathing next to him. Something courses through him; something soft and warm, and he realizes he’s just happy. He’s content in this moment without hanging on to any of the other moments in his life that have brought him here. He isn’t broken here. He’s loved beyond comprehension. He’s safe and beautiful in front of a setting sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul lays his head down on John’s shoulder and something just seems to slot into place. Something makes it easier for John to breathe, and he realizes he hadn’t even known he’d been having trouble filling his lungs all this time. He feels brand new with Paul against him. Clean and working exactly the way a human being ought to. Nothing feels his fault, and he realizes he hasn’t told himself that he doesn’t deserve this yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks he could stay here forever. No more Beatles, no more London. Just this, forever. He thinks of Paul: </span>
  <em>
    <span>why didn’t you ask me?</span>
  </em>
  <span> and realizes he never wants to make Paul wonder something like that again. So, hanging his chin ruefully down towards his chest, smiling shyly, he decides to finally put words to it, words that Paul had so desperately wanted to hear when he’d been nineteen years old: “Would you stay here with me forever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears Paul chuckle sweetly, then press his cheek down firmer against John’s shoulder. He wraps his hands around John’s arm and tugs himself as close as he can get. “We’ve got work on Monday,” he laments, and John thinks that’s the kindest way for Paul to tell him that he’s missed his chance. John starts to nod. If he’d just </span>
  <em>
    <span>asked</span>
  </em>
  <span> in ‘61, who knows where he might be right now. Here, probably, watching a sunset together; except it wouldn’t be their first in six years, it would just be the way they always spend their evenings together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems so simple, so sweetly content, that John wonders if the version of himself who had just </span>
  <em>
    <span>asked</span>
  </em>
  <span> would have ever needed Mary Murphy in his life. Would being loved by Paul every day have been enough to keep his heart beating all on its own?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, something changes. John isn’t sure what it is, but he feels something blanket over the both of them. Paul clings to John’s sleeves, takes a shaky breath and says: “Ask me again once the film’s sorted,” and John realizes that he’s afraid. He’s afraid of how much he’d like their Parisian life. He’s afraid he’s missed the chance to be that french version of himself as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems too private a thing. It makes John swallow down anything he might have said in return. He finds Paul’s hand and tugs it into his lap. Paul’s breath shakes on the inhale, but he doesn’t pull away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Squeezing Paul’s hand, John thinks he’ll hold onto that question, until Paul’s properly ready to hear it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It gets too dark to see around them; John wants to see Paul next to him, so he suggests heading back to the hotel. There’s a glass each left of their champagne, so they take it out onto the balcony. They stand up against the railing, next to one another, looking out over the twinkling skyline. John wonders how he’d look at this if it were his home. Would he still love it? He glances at Paul beside him, who’s lit himself up a cigarette, and realizes he would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Paul’s smoked his cigarette down to the filter, he sits down at the dinky patio furniture laid out for them. He reaches out for the candles in the middle of the table and lights them all up. John sits down opposite him and feels as though he’s been here before. Paul sips at his champagne and muses something about the footage they’d shot in Nice a few days earlier, none of it matters, John hardly listens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul glances back out towards the city and John sees the way the tinkering street lamps paint a halo around him. He inhales sharply: nothing’s changed. He studies the curve of Paul’s nose, the length of his eyelashes, and this time instead of swallowing down a heavy ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you’</span>
  </em>
  <span>, John lets himself brim with an exuberant ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>I still love you’</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He glances down at his glass of champagne and realizes he’s older now. He’s wiser too: he knows Paul likes to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>asked</span>
  </em>
  <span>, likes to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>told</span>
  </em>
  <span>, doesn’t want to be made to guess anymore. He thinks Paul must </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> already anyway, what’s the harm in putting it all into words. It could save the slowly dwindling version of himself that had stayed and lived and loved in Paris. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paul?” he mutters, unsure of what he may be interrupting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Paul asks, then he looks over the table at John, and their eyes connect. John thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I still love you</span>
  </em>
  <span> over and over and wonders if Paul’s got it. He thinks he ought to feel like he’s on acid because something real and tangible passes through them, John can feel it everywhere, and he knows that Paul can feel it too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know what I’m telling you?” he whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul swallows hard. Tells a lie: “No.” John realizes he’s pushing off the inevitable, but the words are alive inside of him now, he can’t live quietly with them anymore. “Say it,” he says, and John feels compelled to in a way he doesn’t understand. He realizes it’s because he’d give Paul anything he wants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” he says, and they’re words that they’ve said to one another before, but tonight, it’s weighted differently. It’s everything. It’s years of miscommunication, of missed opportunity. It’s a moment of reckoning: what will we do with this thing between us now that we’ve given it a name? John realizes he can start to hear his own breaths because Paul won’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>say anything back</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’s frozen stiff and John realizes he’s horrified. John realizes it’s too much — </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s too much</span>
  </em>
  <span> — and he brings Mary Murphy’s office walls up around him. But he leaves the door open for Paul. Gives him another chance to come inside and asks: “Aren’t you going to say anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need a minute,” Paul tells him, and John thinks he sounds angry. It makes him feel like someone’s just hit him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You what…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had so much time to think about this,” Paul says, leaning across the table, meaning every word he says. He waits for John to look up at him, and John realizes that Paul thinks this was unfair. His loving him was unfair, and he wonders how he’s ever able to keep his eyes on Paul’s. “You had so much time to think about whether you really wanted to say this or not,” he says, and John realizes he’s right. He’s spent six years consciously or unconsciously weighing the pros and cons of telling Paul everything. He feels trapped and caught, it makes his cheeks go pink. Paul softens in front of him: his initial shock melts away into a desperate plea to be understood. John thinks he must owe him that. “You can’t expect me to do that same amount of thinking, right here, right now, with you in front of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks he must really mean: </span>
  <em>
    <span>please don’t make me break your heart right here, right now, with you in front of me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> So, he tries to let Paul off the hook. Tries to take them somewhere else. “You don’t have to —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, John,” Paul cuts him off and John wires his mouth shut. In the golden candlelight, he thinks Paul’s eyes have gone glassy. “I want to know I’m saying exactly what I mean.” He nods, hoping John will nod along with him. “I need you to give me some time,” he begs, so John does nod. But Paul must not believe him, because he tacks on another: “please,” and John thinks he’s never seen someone look so sincere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He realizes he doesn’t actually know who Paul is trying to be kind to here. Was it him? Or, was it Jane? He thinks, if they were any younger, if he and Jane hadn’t been together for so long now, Paul might have kissed him. He might have kissed him and dealt with the consequences later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” John mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods graciously, then he looks back out over the Parisian rooftops. He’s still painted with a halo, but now John can see the way his chin trembles under the weight of everything John’s just said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” John hears himself say, because he realizes again: his loving someone is always bad news. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t,” Paul tells him fiercely. His brown eyes go gold over the candlelight. “Don’t be sorry for loving someone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They wake quietly the following morning; early, to catch their flight back to London. John realizes he never asked just how much time Paul had thought he needed. The thought of waiting makes him feel sick with nerves. He realizes that Paul doesn’t offer him any clarifications either: even Paul doesn’t know how long it will take. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are separate cars waiting for them when they land in London. As Paul spots his, John reaches out and tugs at his sleeve. He realizes this will be the most they’ve spoken to one another all morning. There’s something between them now, something that John’s put there, and he wonders how they’ll ever get around it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got the premiere for that film I did this week,” he says. “The one in Almeria.” Paul nods. It had been the most time they’d spent apart in all the years they’d known one another. Paul knows the film well. “Would you go with me?” he asks. Paul seems to clam up. It’s a test, he knows it’s a test. Or, rather, it’s a time cap. “I can get you another ticket for Jane if you’d prefer,” John adds, and it’s all laid out between them: </span>
  <em>
    <span>if you love me, you’ll go with me.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What day?” Paul manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s Thursday,” John tells him, and he watches Paul nod. It’s enough time. Relief washes over him: he’ll have an answer by Thursday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll let you know,” Paul promises, and John believes him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s Wednesday and John still hasn’t heard from Paul. That extra premiere ticket for Jane burns a hole through his pocket. He’s in his music room, hardly playing anything at all, when the phone finally rings. He courses out into the main room and snatches it from the receiver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paul?” he says down the line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need more time,” Paul tells him by way of a greeting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs. He hadn’t realized that there would be a third option. He tears his glasses off his nose and rubs at his eyes. “Okay,” he manages. He thinks he hears Paul exhale tightly. “Okay, so do you need the ticket?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul pauses and even knowing that their little endgame has been pushed, he still feels guilty saying: “Yes. She’d like to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she would, genuinely, John can see that on her face as she and Paul arrive at the cinema. She reaches out for John, kisses both cheeks, and looks so delighted for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is so exciting,” she tells him. “You’re a proper actor now,” she says. John smiles down at her, then glances to Paul, who can hardly look at him. He realizes that Paris had never come up between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say that until after you’ve seen the film,” he scolds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the theatre, he sees Jane smiling up at the version of him on screen and wishes that he was as blissfully unaware of the tension between them. He feels stupid to have been thinking about what Paul might be telling her all this time, when he’d really said nothing at all. He realizes that Paul hadn’t needed time to make a decision, not really, he’d needed time to turn John down in the kindest way he could. John looks up at himself on screen, and wishes he could look at that version the way Jane does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John excuses himself, carefully stepping through his aisle amidst a rush of hushes, a few annoyed whispers, then beelines up the steps towards the back exit as quickly as he can. Knowing it’ll be empty, he steps into the loo, approaches his own reflection in the mirror, and hates this version too. The stupid, romantic one who’d asked for Paris and would never get it. He runs the tap and splashes some of the cool water against his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, he hears the door open. It falls shut slowly, then John hears the lock slide shut. He turns and it’s Paul. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s Paul. John glances at the lock, the back at Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t talked to her,” Paul admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John scoffs. “Yeah, I got that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What am I meant to tell her?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care what you tell her,” John says, offering Paul a shrug, which doesn’t look to go over very well. He reaches out for a cloth to dry his hands, letting his eyes wander elsewhere. “I only care what you tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul huffs impatiently. “You loving me doesn’t exist in a vacuum,” he says, and John realizes that that’s where they’ll always differ. He feels his shoulders droop and just realizes he doesn’t want to fight. He just wants that vacuum to exist. He just wants Paul to tell him he loves him back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that,” he mutters. He glances at Paul and sees him chewing a hole in his bottom lip. He looks as defeated as John feels. He shakes his head solemnly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t easy for me,” Paul tries again and John has to fight down the urge to just keep repeating himself. So, he nods, looks down at his chest and straightens out his own tie before he hears Paul step closer towards him. “I’m meant to hurt someone,” he tells John sadly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs, his hands drop down to his sides and he looks up at Paul. His eyes are wide and desperate. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t want this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He doesn’t want this place that John’s forced him into and John realizes he understands why Paul seemed angry with him on that Parisian balcony. John means to tell him he’s sorry, means to tell him that he can take all the time he needs, John could go on loving him for years without anything in return, he’s been doing that already anyway. But Paul beats him to it. He speaks first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says: “I don’t want to hurt you.” And the world falls out around them. John pictures Jane, back in the theatre, smiling at him, and he realizes that she didn’t know how he feels about her boyfriend because she was never meant to know how he feels about her boyfriend. Paul was always choosing her. “But I can’t just stop loving her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s first instinct is to think: </span>
  <em>
    <span>then, I’ll wait. I’ll wait until that happens on its own.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But he realizes that it could go deeper. There would always be men like him and Brian, and men </span>
  <em>
    <span>not like them. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And maybe after it all, after all the guessing, after all their time in Paris, after all the songs they’ve written next to one another, it all just came down to some flippant comment that Mick Jagger made in a London bar: </span>
  <em>
    <span>no way.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John realizes that Paul has always tried to be kind with him. He realizes that this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>— Jane —</span>
  </em>
  <span> could just be Paul’s version of: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t want to be like you.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” John manages, and he thinks he must sound like he’s going to cry because Paul steps towards him as though he were something cracking in half. “So, if you weren’t with her —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John…” Paul warns. He doesn’t have to say he’s thought about marrying this girl, because John knows it to be true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it really because you’re with her?” John asks and he hates how much easier he thinks he can live with that than the other option: “Or, it is because I’m the way that I am and you’re not?” But what he’s really asking is: </span>
  <em>
    <span>what has it all meant?</span>
  </em>
  <span> If Paul never wanted to kiss him, what had all their looks and touches meant all these years? John feels sick at the prospect of it all meaning nothing. John realizes just how much he needs a man like Brian. A man who’s unafraid to love him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Paul tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t let me think it could happen if it can’t,” John says back, feeling something too much like hope rising in him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t know,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Paul repeats. John hears himself exhale sharply because he sees that that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not nothing.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He sees that that’s something that he can hold onto. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you took your time,” John observes. Paul swallows hard. He looks so sad that John wants to kiss him, though he knows he shouldn’t. “And this is what you really mean, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul’s mouth falls slightly open, but the words die on his lips. John realizes that there’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span> here somewhere and he doesn’t understand it. If it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he just wishes that Paul would say it. But he’s so afraid. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Say it,</span>
  </em>
  <span> John thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Say it and I’ll wait.</span>
  </em>
  <span> John realizes that Paul wishes neither of them had said anything at all. He realizes that putting words to it all have cracked it. He realizes that Paul could have gone on pretending that the way they looked at one another was normal, because acknowledging it would mean acknowledging that simple fact that John kept finding himself up against too: </span>
  <em>
    <span>in this world, there were men like John and Brian, and men unlike them.</span>
  </em>
  <span> John realizes that even Paul doesn’t know where he lies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John…” he says. He stops himself short, but John knows what he means to say: </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t make me say it. You’ve ruined it. You’ve made me break everything.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“If this is what you really mean, then…” Paul shifts forward. John realizes that Paul wants to touch him, but he won’t. “Then, that’s it.” Something shakes in Paul’s throat, something like a sob. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He sees everything breaking down. He sees himself losing it all, losing music, losing the band, </span>
  <em>
    <span>losing John</span>
  </em>
  <span> and it frightens him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it?” he asks, and John realizes that Paul isn’t getting enough oxygen. He wonders how long that’s been going on without him noticing. Paul turns away from him, when John hasn’t answered him, and when he realizes his heaving breaths aren’t doing anything for him. His hand shakes as it runs back through his hair, and John thinks he’s losing him. His eyes go distant, then he closes them, shutting himself off from the world. He doubles over, his hands on his knees, and he just tries to breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paul?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul holds a hand out to him, making him keep his distance. “I’m alright,” he says. “I just, um…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have to breathe, Paul,” John tells him. Paul nods and he starts sucking in as much air as he can. He shakes with it at first, but the technique is there. Big breath in: </span>
  <em>
    <span>one, two, three, four</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and then out: </span>
  <em>
    <span>one, two, three, four.</span>
  </em>
  <span> John matches his pace just to hold his rhythm and he thinks Paul appreciates it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They seem to have caught it before Paul’s lost it. His breaths go shorter, steadier, and John hears himself ask: “Has that happened before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not since I was a kid,” Paul admits, and John finally sees what he’d been most afraid of: the version of himself, before John. John thinks of Jim McCartney: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I saw my son for the first time after you asked him to join your group.</span>
  </em>
  <span> John realizes he’s been Paul’s consolation all these years, just like Paul had been for him. Paul could be the dirt-poor boy from Liverpool without a mother if he could also be the boy who’d found John Lennon. There was nothing in the first boy he liked if he couldn’t also be the latter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s panic. I get them too,” John tells him, and Paul looks up at him, like they’ve just met in Woolton all over again. He stands up a little straighter, taking his hands off his knees, because he suddenly feels like he can. John watches him realize he isn’t alone and it fills him up with something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you leave?” Paul asks, his voice quiet because he isn’t ready for the answer. “If I tell you this is what I really mean, will you leave?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks of George, worried that he wouldn’t want to play music with Paul anymore — with the band. And he realizes he’d been right to be worried. There’s nothing John wants more than to put as much space between him and Paul until he can make this start to feel okay in his heart. He realizes how empty he’d feel. If this proved true, he’d be empty. He wonders how long he’d feel empty for. He wonders what could ever fill it all up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” John tells him, and he says it for George, he says it for Paul. He says it for everyone but himself. He blearily wonders when he became so bloody selfless, before he reckons it slowly happened in all the moments he spent thinking of Brian, thinking of Brian before he speaks, before he acts. It had all added up to this. And John realizes he wants to be this person. He thinks he would love and care for this person if it weren’t himself. Maybe there was a chance he would one day, if Mary could finally break him down and force it on him. “You don’t have to say it, Paul,” John says. “I hear you anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul’s relief is tangible; there’s a prize in being protective. John realizes he feels proud of himself the way he does when he doesn’t allow Julian to be hurt by something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John doesn’t have the heart to tell Paul that what he actually hears is: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m a liar. This isn’t over.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And how did you like France?” Mary asks, halfway through their next session. They both must realize that John’s been avoiding the subject altogether. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She isn’t asking about France, not really, so John tells her: “He loves me. Just not that way.” She nods, no expression there to give her away. “I shouldn’t have said anything, he wasn’t ready to hear it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t feel guilty for expressing your feelings,” she tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” John says with a shrug. “Maybe I wasn’t ready either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something was holding you back,” Mary says. “You wouldn’t tell me what it was, but I knew it the moment you walked through my door.” John glances up at her and she smiles reassuringly. “You’ve spent most of your life afraid of how people might respond to your feelings, so you just held onto them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I put them in my songs,” John says, chuckling at himself. He knows she’s right, but he just likes to poke holes in her theories. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles at him. “You’re lucky to have,” she tells him. “You would have popped.” He laughs, so she does too. “You’ll feel freer now that you’ve said it,” she adds, and it makes him think of Brian. He realizes he must have found a piece of him the day he came here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I reckon I already do,” he allows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad,” she tells him honestly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose now I just have to figure out where to put it all,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your love for him?” He nods in response. “Can you spare some for yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a lot of it, he realizes he probably could. He thinks of that selfless version of himself, the one that didn’t make Paul hurt him, and passes a little his way. He thinks of the version of himself that had held onto Brian’s hand in front of strangers that day they painted the mural in Brian’s sunroom to show them all it was okay. He passes a little to him too. He thinks of himself as a young boy, newly-moved into Mendips, and has to stop. There were so many versions of himself that deserved more love than he’d been willing to give. He thinks he might not have any left for Paul if he keeps giving it all away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if she’s just read his mind, Mary tells him: “One day, that will feel like an infinite resource.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she assures him. “If we do this right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, he wonders who that little boy might have grown up to be if he’d just been shown a little more love. If his parents had just cared for him the way they were meant to care about a child. He thinks of Mimi and George, that first night. He remembers hating his new bed, his new room. It was all too big and none of it had Julia. Except Mimi. There were pieces of Julia in her sister that John had clung to and Mimi had let him. She’d loved him, he always knew that to be true. She’d loved him and she’d given him </span>
  <em>
    <span>a chance</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he couldn’t love himself enough yet, he could remember that: she’d loved him enough to give him a chance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like that,” he admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John,” she says softly. She scoots forward in her seat and John finds himself doing the same, hanging on to her every word. “I want you to know that I think you’re doing really well.” John swallows hard, but he nods. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to hear more. “I want you to understand how far we’ve come. I want you to understand that the journey to better ourselves is one of the most rewarding things we can do. For ourselves, and the people around us.” John thinks of Cyn and Julian and desperately hopes for that to be true. “You’ll wake up one morning, feeling so gracious to the man who decided to walk in through that door,” she tells him. “You’ll be so grateful, you won’t know how to do anything but love him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if Brian and Cynthia are grateful that he’d listened to them. That he’d come here. He wonders if they know how to do anything but love him. He wants to take some of that love and hold it for himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m grateful to the people who talked me into it,” he manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, allowing that, and adds: “But you still walked in here alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know why that strikes him, but it does. He inhales deeply and imagines the version of himself that sat on this sofa for the first time, clutching to a pillow as though his life depended on it. Desperately afraid, but just too tired to keep going on the way he had been. He hands off a piece of that love to him too, then realizes that all these versions: the little boy in a new bedroom at Mendips, the young man in Paris who had been too afraid to ask for love, and the queer-grieving-soon-to-be-ex-husband, they had all grown, however long, into the man he was right now. If he allowed them love, he supposes he had to let this version of himself have some too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gobbles it up and realizes just how good his own love makes him feel. He hopes his love felt the same way to Cyn and Brian and Stuart and Mimi and… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Paul</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wonders if it's the goodness of it, the truthfulness, that had made Paul so scared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John says. “I guess I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should feel proud of the things you’ve done,” she urges. “The things you’ve overcome. It hasn’t been easy.” John nods, because it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “You’re worth this effort. You’re worth the effort of others.” He nods again. He knows that’s a phrase he’s meant to repeat to himself without her even having told him. “You’re worth their love too. They should love you purposefully. I hope you know that, most of all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do,” John manages and he’s surprised that it doesn’t feel like a lie. “I didn’t,” he admits, slipping in a quiet ‘thank you’. “But I do now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’s this?” John asks, stepping out from his old bedroom at Kenwood in a new white pinstripe jacket. Cyn looks up from where she’s sitting on the floor next to Julian. She looks him up and down and then raises her eyebrows. He spreads his arms out, gives a small turn so she can see all the angles. “Well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good,” she tells him with a smile. She gives Julian a kiss and then stands herself up. She approaches him and fixes the collar of his turtleneck. “You look very nice.” He smiles at her, feels something like a blush rushing down his chest. He glances down at her lips, just for a moment, then back up to her eyes. He realizes he hasn’t been kissed in a long time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She must recognize that because she pats the lapels of his jacket gently, then puts a little more space between them. “Have you met anyone since you’ve moved out?” she asks, keeping her voice low so Julian won’t hear her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gulps down hard and realizes, yes, that’s definitely a blush. “No,” he tells her, and he doesn’t have the heart to say he’s wanted it to be Paul. All this time, he’s wanted it to be Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, looks sorry about it as she tells him: “I’ve met someone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” John manages. He looks down at her hands, still resting on his chest. “Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods up at him. “I think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances around her to where Julian’s still playing with his toys on the floor. “Has Julian met him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she says quickly. “It isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> serious yet.” He feels his heart beat quicker when she says that word: </span>
  <em>
    <span>yet.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He knows he shouldn’t, but he feels left behind by something. This is what he’d wanted, for her, for the both of them, but he still feels left behind. “If it looks like we’ll last, I’d like you to meet him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, yeah,” John mutters. He nods, looks down at her, and gives it a little more urgency when he sees just how nervous she is. “No, I think I should. I’d like to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes her smile, but John can tell that she doesn’t quite know what to make of the fact that she’s the last person to have kissed him. “Well,” she says optimistically. “Maybe there will be someone there tonight who might capture your attention.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They arrive at the Apple Boutique holding hands and John realizes it isn’t just because they haven’t announced any plans for divorce, it’s simply because he likes to, and she allows it. She doesn’t have to, so John takes it for the kindness that it is. It’s a simple touch he hasn’t had in months. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George is the only other one of them there. Ringo was shooting some film somewhere and Paul had gone off to Scotland for a few days. Things had gone a bit stiff between the two of them. It felt as though Paul never knew quite what to say, and John supposes he couldn’t blame him. He had left John empty; there was nothing to fill him up but time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He squeezes Cynthia’s hand and realizes that he hasn’t been allowing himself to do this with anyone else because something had told him that day at the movie premiere, that he should wait for Paul. But he didn’t want to anymore. He wanted to be loved and treated purposely, by anyone who looked at him and wanted to do so. He’d given Paul time, and Paul had made a choice. He realizes that he could also be filled with resignation and acceptance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he even wants to laugh at the fact that he hasn’t kissed a man since he’s come out, but he realizes </span>
  <em>
    <span>he has</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He suddenly remembers what it had felt like to have Jack’s body pressed up against him at Alibi, and even though he knows he’d wished it were Paul, he wants that feeling again. After a third whiskey and coke at the Boutique, he very suddenly burns with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George finds him on one of the sofas halfway through the evening; he sits down next to him, nearly sloshing the drink out of his cup. He grins at John, probably having just about as much whiskey in his belly, too. John means to grin back, but realizes he’s already smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” John asks, just so they can stop smiling at each other like idiots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George just shrugs; John thinks he even grins a little wider. “I like being out with you, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You what?” John says around a laugh. He feels himself go pink with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George shrugs again. He’s still smiling, but he looks a bit more serious. Or, perhaps sincere. “You were going quiet for a bit there. I thought we might lose you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it was the acid,” John allows and he realizes that’s exactly what George had meant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve stopped taking it,” George tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too,” John echoes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George nods, then he looks down at his hands and tells him: “I think it’s good that you’ve been telling us all about you and Brian.” He looks up at John, and John thinks he looks proud. He realizes it’s filling him up. He suddenly wishes Paul were here, so he could see this, so John could tell him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>see, I promise you haven’t broken me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He wonders if Paul would believe it, even if he saw it. “I think that’s helped too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, and thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It is all these things, but it’s more too: it’s the time he’s spent with Mary. It was all mending him. “I started seeing someone,” he admits. “A psychologist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George goes still and before John can worry about his judgement, George shifts closer. “When?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs. “Just after we finished the film, I suppose.” He watches George do the math in his head: </span>
  <em>
    <span>three months</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No wonder he seemed to be doing so well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been good, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods. “Yeah, I think it has,” he allows. “I’ve learned a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s…” George stutters on what he really means. John realizes it’s because he can’t articulate how happy he is. “That’s brilliant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” John manages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sips at his whiskey, then scans the room for Cynthia. It’s about the time she’d usually like to leave. He glances towards the door, and holds his breath when he sees Robert Fraser stepping inside the Boutique. Paul must have extended an invitation. He feels himself exhale when he sees Jack trailing in behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Christ,” John mutters. He sees Bob look out over the crowd and spot him and George over on the sofa. He turns to Jack to show them where they are and John can’t bear to look. “Oh, Christ,” he says again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” George asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bob’s just walked in,” John explains, but it isn’t a strange enough occurrence for George to understand John’s reaction, so he adds: “I know that bloke he’s with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” George mumbles, then he seems to catch on to what’s got John so nervous. “Oh, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> him?” he asks, a wide smile on his face that just makes John go redder, go hotter. “Johnny,” George drawls, sounding impressed. “He’s quite fit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” John hisses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh oh,” George mutters, then sits up a little straighter, sets his collar straighter and John feels compelled to do the same thing himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” he demands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s coming over here,” George says, hoping to sound casual. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He isn’t,” John says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is,” George confirms, taking a look at where Bob and Jack must be coming from in his periphery. Going for subtlety, John glances over his shoulder, and finds both Jack and Bob smiling at him as they come closer. “Oh, Christ, he is,” John mutters. He fidgets with his jacket, the pin on the lapel, and straightens out his trousers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look good,” George tells him, then he looks up, offering a pleasant smile. “Hiya, Bob.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, lads,” Bob says down to them both. He glances from George to John, sees the way he’s blushing and quite likes it. “I hope you don’t mind us crashing your party, even though McCartney’s not here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be our guest, mate,” George tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John,” Bob says, then he reaches out for Jack’s shoulder. “You remember my friend, Jack, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, aye,” John says, then he looks from Bob to Jack and words leave him. He realizes if he keeps speaking, he’ll tell Jack that he hasn’t been kissed in three months, he’ll tell him he wants to hold his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good to see you, John,” Jack says, holding his hand out for him. John thinks it must just be him who thinks his voice sounds silky, but he steals a glance at George, who’s giving it all he has to keep from grinning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was going to get us some drinks,” Bob announces. “George, do you mind showing me where the bar is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George is standing before Bob even finishes his question. John knew this was coming, but couldn’t the two of them just be cool about it? He feels his stomach flip and thinks he must be blushing like a teenager. They go off muttering to one another; at least, George offers a reassuring smile over their shoulders back at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you mind?” Jack eventually asks, gesturing towards the now-vacated space on the sofa next to him. By way of answering, John shifts a little closer to the arm of the couch, giving him as much space as he’d need. And Jack takes it. John quite likes the confidence he has sitting down next to him: he tucks one foot underneath him and sits just so their knees can knock against one another’s. “You look very well,” Jack observes sincerely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been to Paris,” John mumbles. “Love looks good on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack smiles; John thinks he ought to be looking him up and down, taking him all in, but he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on John’s and John thinks he likes that just as much. “I imagine it does,” Jack says back. “Bob likes Paris,” he continues. “You’ll have to show me what all the fuss is about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John scoffs, means to say he wouldn’t go back to Paris now, unless he absolutely had to. He realizes Paris doesn’t look good on him, Paul’s love does, and if he didn’t have that, there would be no use in going to Paris. Instead, he just shrugs and says: “It’s the same as in the pictures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sensing something off, Jack casually changes the subject. John realizes his moods </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> a bit like a foghorn. “Bob mentioned that you paint,” he says, and John blushes with it. It means that Paul has told Bob about his Liverpool days. It means Paul has told him proudly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really anymore,” he says and realizes he’d mostly stopped completely after he lost Stuart. “I was in school for it before all this happened,” he continues, gesturing the party around him. “Painting, drawing, whatever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now, what?” Jack asks, shifting forward. John glances down at his hands, sees them stained with ink, rough with work put in in front of an easel. He has hands like Stuart had, like John had too. “There isn’t enough time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, probably,” he says. And he realizes that had been true, once. For years, there wasn’t enough time, but he knows there is now. He’s just spent all of his free time gobbling drugs and tinkering away, making nothing. He remembers that morning, June 21st, in Brian’s living room, high on nothing but Brian and freedom, feeling just as excited and out there as George and Pattie did, tripping. He realizes that love and art and music have always had the same results for him as drugs, if he’d just let himself feel it. He’d grown too accustomed to the suddenness of acid, of pills. The high of swallowing something and then not feeling anything at all. He realizes that’s over now. He realizes that Mary had shown him how to </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> feeling. “I’d like to do more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack takes a look around the party, then leans towards John. He looks as sincere as he had back in Alibi: he means to be forward, but aware of the time he still probably thinks John needs. “It’s a bit of a stuffy party, don’t you think?” They share a smile, just meant for the two of them. He isn’t wrong, so John finds himself shifting towards him too. Jack notices. He looks down at the lessening space between them, then up at John. John realizes he gets something from Jack when he looks at him too, just like he does with Paul. “We could leave,” he offers. “We could go back to my studio. Paint something.” John realizes that, for now, that’s all it’s about. It’s about the art. John thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>help me make something beautiful and I’ll kiss you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Hell, he’d kiss him anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels himself nod before his mouth can come up with an answer. Jack smiles, genuinely pleased, then helps John off the couch. Bob and George are somewhere, with drinks for them, but neither of them seem to care. As they push their way towards the door, John thinks that Jack wants to hold his hand; he wishes they could too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They find Bob, and John finds Cynthia to let them know they’re going, before they slip out onto the sidewalk. In the crisp winter air, it feels more fitting to stand close to one another. Tangled up in their jackets, John feels Jack take his hand. “Do you have a car?” John just shakes his head, so Jack steps out in the middle of the street and hails them down a taxi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels secure in the back of a taxi. They’re practically alone, separated by metal on three sides and a partition on the other. He shifts as close to Jack as is reasonable and peers out Jack’s window, pretending to be taking in his neighborhood. Jack’s breath fogs up the window, then he glances down at John, turning his head towards him, so that their noses are closer than they should be. John smiles at him, liking the way it feels to be in his space. Jack seems to blush and it’s so unfitting to the way he lets his hand wander down towards John’s knee. His fingers have gone cold as ice, John likes the way they feel against the way his skin is burning beneath his clothes. John shifts his leg wider, opening his hips slightly. Jack takes his hint and lets his hand trace slowly upward. He gives the inside of John’s thigh a good squeeze when he reaches about halfway up. It’s forceful enough that John finds he has to look away. He finds he suddenly can’t look directly at the person he wants to kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels Jack pull his hand away, even hears him chuckle lightly. John steals a glance at him and finds that Jack has looked out his own window too. He hopes it’s because he can’t manage how much he wants to kiss John too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack’s flat is off the beaten trail. It’s filled with art on the walls and knick-knacks everywhere. It feels the way John wishes his did. He’s suddenly glad that Jack had asked here, rather than the other way around. He makes a mental note to properly jazz up his flat. He thinks of Cynthia, happy for him as he left, happy to be seeing someone herself, and realizes that, for better or worse, this is his life now. The flat is his life now. He needs to make it so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any of these yours?” John asks, gesturing to a few of the paintings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack shakes his head. He shifts closer to John and unashamedly takes John’s hand in his. He runs his fingers along the back of John’s palm, smiles at the way their fingers lock into one another, then smiles up at John too. “No,” he answers. He tugs John towards where John has to imagine his studio is. “I keep all mine hidden.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes open a door, the painting studio bright white. Splotches of different colours are on the floor, on the walls. It certainly looks well-used. There are a few nearly-completed pieces resting up against one another on the floor. John goes to them. Along the way, he passes a small record player, covered in fingerprints of various colours. There’s a collection of records in a milk crate next to it; John has to put in some effort to keep from leafing through them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stuart had liked to paint to music too. John shockingly hadn’t. He didn’t mind it, certainly not when it was Stuart playing it, not when it meant he got to watch Stuart create something. But whenever he painted alone, he liked to paint in the quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crouches down in front of the easels on the floor. He reaches out, tests how wet the paint is, and he’s glad most of them are dry enough that he can pick them up and hold them. It’s the colours he notices mostly: they’re rich and vibrant and </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span> in a way that John had never seemed to make his own stuff. One face appears in a few of the portraits, so John points to one of the woman smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s this?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack crouches down next to him, resting his chin on John’s shoulder to keep balance. “My sister,” Jack tells him. John takes him in the way he imagines people take him in when he mentions his mother. But he can’t seem to find the same devastation and anger. “She married a Canadian bloke, who took her off to Toronto,” he explains, sad in a sweet way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How drab,” John laments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack laughs then asks: “You’ve been to Toronto?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs. “I’ve been inside the King Eddy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack laughs again, rueful and amused. He shakes his head and allows: “I get a few more transatlantic flights out of it than I thought I might. It isn’t so bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You miss her,” John observes. He feels Jack put a little more weight against his shoulder, sighing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do,” he says. “Do you have any siblings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, thinking of the way that he’d grown up alone in Mendips, then seems to catch himself: “Well, I suppose I have half-sisters.” Jack raises his eyebrows. “My parents didn’t stick it out together,” he explains. “My mother had a whole second family.” Jack nods, doesn’t seem to raise attention to the fact that John’s gone into the past tense. Feeling on the verge of revealing too much, John turns back to the portrait. “She your only one then?” He means sibling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back to a smile, Jack nods again. “She is, aye,” he says. “My parents had me and said: </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles broadly. “You were a mixer,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was ‘curious’,” Jack allows. “That’s the word they used to put on all the report cards.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s just teacher-speak for ‘destined for the arts’,” John tells him and Jack’s smile grows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did they call you, then?” Jack asks. “If not ‘destined for the arts’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John balks a laugh, tries to remember all the terrible words that had been used to describe him in school, all the words that just made Mimi more and more disappointed in him. “Saboteur,” John offers, which makes Jack laugh. “A distraction. Rude, malevolent. One even called me a loud-mouth prick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On your report card?” Jack jibes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To my face,” John corrects. Jack buries his face into John’s shoulder, laughing, muttering a sincere ‘oh, no’, as if he’s just realized what he’s gotten himself into. “Generally, my reputation precedes me.” Jack lifts his cheek off John’s shoulder, looks up at him, still smiling hard. “I’ve never been one to conform.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Jack allows. Then, John feels one of Jack’s hands on the small of his back. “But I like that in a man.” Something passes between them; something real and electric and John’s smitten by it. It makes him both think of Paul and forget about Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard, on the exhale, he allows his mouth to hang slightly open. He sees Jack watching his lips and it makes him go hot. “I do too.” Jack nods, then John moves quicker than he thought he could; three months of not having been kissed catch up to him. He presses his lips to Jack’s, closes his eyes, and waits to feel Jack’s hand in his hair. Jack gives him what he wants; he cards his fingers through John’s hair, even gives it a gentle tug, and John hears himself make a noise he hasn’t made in a long time, not since Brian. Jack deepens the kiss, seems to press their bodies closer together, before he suddenly pulls away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps one hand at the nape of John’s neck. John feels the other tugging at the collar of his shirt. “We haven’t painted anything,” Jack observes, and John knows it’s only because he doesn’t want John to think he’s only brought him home for one reason. But it doesn’t matter; John’s here now, and he’s just been kissed. He thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>make me feel beautiful, and I’ll do more than kiss you.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care,” John tells him honestly and he kisses him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being given permission, Jack slowly stands them both up. They’re still locked onto one another. John feels Jack bite at his lower lip, just as the back of his head comes into contact with the wall behind him. He melts back against the plaster. He opens his legs for Jack to slot his thigh between them, and he thinks he’s exactly where he’s wanted to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all feels both slow and in a whirlwind. Jack is gentle with him, silently and with his words, making sure everything he does is being welcomed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Jack slowly bottoms out inside of him, when nothing hurts, John doesn’t find himself wishing it were Paul on top of him, or even Brian, he only wishes he’d allowed this for himself sooner. He pulls Jack down against him, as close as they can manage and lets Jack kiss him through everything. Something in his head tells him that he doesn’t feel empty anymore, and it isn’t just about the sex, it’s the reinvigoration of this part of himself that he’d let dwindle into nothing all these years. It’s the small part of him that he’d shamed into silence, wanting to be heard and wanting to grow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t love between them, John wouldn’t be so foolish to think so, but Jack treats him with purpose. He kisses and touches him deliberately, tells him in every place that their skin meets one another: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you are worth being looked after.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Before it’s even over, John finds himself realizing he can’t wait to do this again. Again, and with someone he loves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John wakes up early the following morning. The bedroom is filled with soft light the way Brian’s always was. Jack stirs next to him, and welcomes it when John shifts himself onto Jack’s lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John almost has to laugh at how much he feels like a teenager, but his desire to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> is too sincere to ignore. </span>
  <em>
    <span>All these years</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, lowering himself down to nip marks onto Jack’s throat. This feeling had been waiting for him all these years. Brian had been tugging him closer to it, all these years. He allows himself a moment of silent gratitude, and it feels healthy, because when he opens his eyes, it’s still Jack looking up at him. He doesn’t see Brian; he isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’s just helped build the man who found his way here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cynthia invites John to Liverpool for Christmas and it feels like the right thing to do. He thinks that family is a good thing to have around for Julian’s first Christmas with parents who live in separate houses. He treks out to Hoylake, even convinces Mimi to join him. It’s warm and happy, despite the fact that none of them are really family anymore. It’s so sweet and tangible an atmosphere that even Mimi can’t ignore it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She makes him carry all their gifts back into Mendips that night in the snow. Without looking back at him, she allows: “I think a divorce has saved your family,” and it makes him stop dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sets the box of gifts down on the breakfast table in the kitchen, watches her start to put on some tea. He feels like he can hardly breathe, but it isn’t in a way that scares him. He watches her and realizes that she isn’t just resigned to having a boy who’s been divorced (or, will be, soon), she’s proud of the decision. She’s accepted it. It makes him realize that he should see what else she might accept. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods when she looks over her shoulder at him. She offers him a smile, then turns back to the kettle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mimi,” he manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, John?” she hums without turning towards him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve divorced because…” He stammers, realizes that it’s halfway out of his mouth, he can’t take any of this back, even if he wanted to. With the words on his lips, he very suddenly wonders if this is wise. He imagines himself being sent out into the snow. Spending the evening alone in a hotel, living silently with the fact that the woman who raised him now hates him. “Because I’ve been with men,” he finally says, and it isn’t wholly true; it isn’t the whole reason he and Cynthia have finished, but he realizes it’s a big part of it. With Jack on top of him, John had realized just how big a part of himself this was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mimi goes stiff as a board. John sees her knuckles go white against the counter. He holds his breath. Slowly, she turns towards him, and she’s unreadable. John feels his heart race behind his rib cage. He takes a deep breath, means to stand his ground if he has to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve what?” she manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m queer,” he confirms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flicker down to the kitchen tiles at his feet. She keeps them there; John can see her mind running wildly behind them. She crosses her arms over her chest and they both listen to the kettle start to whistle with boiling water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mimi?” he tries. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t ignore me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he silently begs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t ignore me like I’ve done something wrong.</span>
  </em>
  <span> There’s a long moment where he’s afraid she’ll never speak to him again. He feels tears in his eyes when he realizes he’s just done what Paul was so afraid of: he’s just lost someone else. “I’m sorry,” he says, suddenly regretting the night he’d spent with Jack, he regrets going to Barcelona with Brian, and kissing him every chance he got and it makes him feel sick. He doesn’t understand how he ever thought he’d found peace with a man’s body on top of him, he hates that he has. It’s cost him everything --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must understand I need a moment,” she says, cutting his mind off from where it’s going. He exhales sharply and his relief must be so stark because it makes her look up at him. She softens when she sees him and he realizes he must look the way he had the first day she’d brought him into her home full-time. So afraid, so unwanted. She takes a step away from the countertop, towards him, and John thinks that if she weren’t her, and he weren’t him, they’d hug one another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you still love me?” he hears himself ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She narrows his eyes at him, but he realizes she isn’t angry at all of him: she’s angry at the part of him that thinks he doesn’t deserve to be loved by her. “Do I still love you?” she parrots back. He nods, because he needs to hear her say it. In this moment, right now, he needs to hear her say it. And he thinks it must be the first time she’s ever been able to read his mind. It’s the first time she’s ever been able to look at him and understand everything about the boy staring back at her. “Of course I do,” she tells him and he feels a tear on his cheek. He turns away from her, wipes at it petulantly. “You’ll have to do far worse to get rid of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hears himself laugh, or rather, he hopes it’s a laugh. He doesn’t want to be crying. He nods, then feels her hands, rubbing lines up and down his arms. “Nip to the loo,” she tells him. “Clean yourself up, and I’ll have this tea ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does as he’s told and he realizes he feels like himself again. He takes the stairs up towards the wash closet and realizes that this is still the home he grew up in. She was still the woman who’d seen a broken young boy and decided he was worth fixing. He realizes home is everywhere. Home is where Mimi is, where Cynthia and Julian are, where he feels safe to let men touch him. It’s where Paul is; it’s where love is endless and inexplicable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d found it. He looks up at his own reflection in the mirror and thinks again: </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’d finally found it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>In the studio, John realizes that home is also where he can make music. He smiles as he teaches Paul his piece behind the piano. He smiles when George hits a note in the solo that John hadn’t even asked him to and it brings the whole song together. He smiles when he realizes they’re all having as much fun as he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles and sings about solitude and fears. He hears himself sing: </span>
  <em>
    <span>what makes you think you’re something special when you smile?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He realizes it’s special because of the way it makes the people around him feel. He thinks he ought to write his next song about that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a plane ticket with John’s name on it back at his flat. London to New Dehli; it’s a new year, it’s a new leaf and he looks at George and he wonders how exactly George knew he’d needed something like this all along. There’s a slip of paper with Mary Murphy’s phone number next to it. It’s a new year, but he knows full-well he’ll never travel anywhere without it again. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopes</span>
  </em>
  <span> he can use what she’s taught him while he’s halfway across the world. He thinks she must have made him strong enough to do so. He stands by himself now, on this precipice, and he thinks: is everyone always this unafraid of something new? Is this how it felt to have a brain that didn’t hate itself?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and Geo still flying out on Thursday?” Paul asks as they’re packing away their guitars. John pauses, looks him over, and realizes that Paul looks nervous. This new year, this new leaf, it was eating him up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John tells him gently, because he thinks Paul might tell him that he doesn’t want him to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods. “You think it will be good for us, right?” he asks. He glances up at John as though he’ll have all the answers, but then must find that he can’t look directly at him. He studies his own hands as he clasps his guitar case shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope so,” John offers, though he realizes he’ll always have Mary. He realizes Paul doesn’t have anything to come home to if this doesn’t work. “Some people swear by it,” he adds. “Anything to make your head straight, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Paul echoes, but John can see that something is holding him back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does Jane think it might not work?” he asks. He swears he sees Paul flinch, just for a moment, before he turns his head away from John, scratches idly at the back of his neck, and John realizes there isn’t just something that’s holding him back, there’s something that he’s hiding. “Nobody has to go if they don’t want to,” John tells him, because he thinks that must be it. He must feel roped into this somehow, then:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jane </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> coming,” Paul says and John wires his mouth shut. They’ve had a fight, John can see that plain as day. “We’ve…” Paul shakes his head at himself, then forces himself to look up at John. “Well, we’ve broken up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John loses track of time. He doesn’t know what day it is, or where he is. Paul’s looking at him and John can’t imagine himself looking anywhere but right back at him. He swallows thickly, then starts to nod: “I’m sorry,” he manages, thinking of himself in the toilets at the movie premiere. Something heavy sits in his stomach. Paul looks fraught and he’s done this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m trying to work it out,” Paul admits. His eyes go soft and apologetic and John realizes that Paul’s making him guess. “She won’t speak to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” John says again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul just nods. Then, he looks down at his guitar case and keeps his eyes there. “I feel a bit lost,” he says, his voice rough with how much he means it. John doesn’t doubt him. John watches him try to smile, try to shrug, and imagines they’re all actions of the sort of man who hadn’t yet stepped into a therapist’s office alone. It’s dismissive and deprecating, cruel to the only person that can dig him out of this: himself. “All will be revealed in India, I suppose.” He’s finally able to glance up at John, and it’s all fake. Paul must see that John isn’t buying it, because his smile falters. He gathers up his guitar case and mutters: “Anything to get your head straight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks he must say ‘I’m sorry’ again, but then he’s watching Paul leave. He suddenly wishes that he and Paul were flying together. It felt like the sort of closeness that might jolt everything back into place. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As I wrote/edited this, I really had a hard time with how I was dealing with Jane. I swear this isn’t going to be a lesson in erasure. I really do like Jane a lot. This is not a case where Paul’s simply ~*realized John is better for him*~ and gets rid of the woman in his life. They had plenty of issues outside of any confession John could have made here, and that’s going to be abundantly clear in Part Four. I pulled up the timeline of their break-up just to avoid any cheating mess. I really hate that shit. </p><p>Paul's break-up with Jane will hang heavy over Part Four, and I really, really do not want to appear like I'm taking that lightly.</p><p>Also, I keep forgetting to plug the fact that I’m on tumblr also as @orphanbeat! It’s way lighter over there, I swear!!! Hit me up with any questions/thoughts there too!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. PART FOUR</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>OK, so this one became a bit more of a monster than I intended it to, but that seems to be my MO with this thing. </p><p>First and foremost, as we are posting the last part here, I wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been with this this thing from the beginning! It's definitely had it's heavier moments and all of your comments and kudos along the way have played a major role in pushing through some of the tougher things in this. </p><p>I hope that a lot of it made sense and just, if it didn't come across: I really care deeply about everyone's ability to love themselves and try to make moves to start living outside of shame, and the BIGGIE: tell the people you love that you love them! It's so hard living a life where you have to guess, and that you're making the people around you guess. </p><p>Anyway, easy reading! This grew because I really wanted to make sure that it felt like a slow walk into something important. Sorting Paul out was a really interesting thing to try to pull off, I really hope I did his own internal conflict some justice in this. </p><p>One of my only regrets with this story is that I'll never get to hear this universe's version of The White Album lmao. </p><p>I plugged this on my last chapter too, but since this is the end, I figured I'd do it here too: I'm also on tumblr, as @orphanbeat over there as well, if you ever want to reach out there, see what I'm working on next, just be overall lighter lmao. That's the place to be. </p><p>AS ALWAYS: no defamation intended, I don't own anything in here, I don't claim anything as fact, obvi. </p><p>Let's get to it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>PART FOUR.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The flight is painless. Even the landing is painless. The airport is quiet. Nobody’s been able to guess where they’ve gone, and why should they? Nobody was expecting a rock and roll group to seek enlightenment. It made John smile in the car that took them from the airport to Maharishi’s camp: the way that, even after all these years, all the time spent with no privacy and endless interviews, they could still surprise people. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We contain multitudes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks, before he realizes he should shut his eyes and let himself sleep the rest of the way. The long flight was getting to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cynthia had been in the car directly beside him. When he shut his eyes, he’d reached out for her hand. That was still the best way to help him fall asleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of them had come together, but they’d also come alone. Neither of them had said it, but this whole trip felt like a chance to stand on their own two feet. It felt like the opportunity to build themselves from the ground up and be present and self-aware for whoever they fell in love with next. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn had never been cruel to him, though she ought to have been. She had never been withdrawn. But still, she wanted to be better. John admired her for it. It had made him realize that there was no end goal for him and this journey. When he’d started it, he’d thought: I’ll stop when I’m stable, I’ll stop when I’m kind. But even when he was able to become those things, there was more still. More he wanted to be. Cyn too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If John had ever been sent to camp as a boy, he imagines the Maharishi’s commune to feel like a summer camp. The ashrams for them are all set to one side, huddled relatively close together, like cabins. There’s sunny open spaces on the other, and larger structures where lectures and lessons must be held. There are communal tables where they’ll all eat together, and it makes John smile. It sort of feels the way he’d hoped they might have been able to make Greece feel, if they’d actually gone out and bought that island. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George and Pattie pick the ashram next to John and Cyn. There aren’t any lessons planned for their first day, so after a quick walk around the camp to establish directions, the four of them end up in rocking chairs in front of George and Pattie’s ashram. The sun goes down around them, so Pattie lights the lanterns hanging over them. It all goes golden, so John settles deeper into his chair. Somewhere, he realizes there is some incense burning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn is the first to decide she’s off to bed. Travel has always done that to her. John doesn’t think he'll be that far behind. Pattie is next, so John decides he’s outstayed his welcome. He lifts himself to his feet too, despite Pattie protesting that he stay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just have a smoke,” George tells him, already offering him a cigarette. “I’m knackered too, we’ll go in after we smoke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pattie smiles when John agrees; she kisses him on the cheek, kisses George too, then disappears inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John lowers himself back into his chair, so George does the same thing. They smoke in silence for a few moments. It is quite relaxing, John’s glad he stayed for it. Then, George glances out over the camp and sighs. “I wanted to ask you something,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles to himself, starts to nod slowly. They could surprise everyone but themselves, he supposes. “Yeah, I figured you might,” he mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears George huff out an indignant laugh, but it isn’t enough to make him swallow this question. He takes another moment, then says: “You know, Paul’s told me that he and Jane have broken up. That she won’t be joining us.” John opens his eyes, sees that George is studying him, to see how much of that he’d already known. John nods, so George says: “He’s told you too, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods again, knows there’s an actual question in here somewhere, so he says: “Spit it out, son.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” George squirms. “Did you tell him how you felt? In France?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs, feels it all come back. Feels himself back up on that Parisian balcony, then back in the cinema. He nods, takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Aye,” he allows. There's a split second where he wonders why he hadn’t told George any of this already, but then he realizes exactly why. He swallows hard and has to admit: “He turned me down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George looks away apologetically. “So, this isn’t --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what this is,” John tells him. “Honestly, mate.” George nods, believing him. Believing that Paul’s kept John as in the dark as he’s kept George. “He was quite cagey about it. He didn’t tell me what happened between them.” He ashes his cigarette and takes another long drag. He shrugs helplessly and finally allows the harshest truth: the reality that, even though Jane and Paul were through, it didn’t mean anything for him, because: “He wants her back, though. I know that much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George nods, then his seriousness turns into a smirk. “Good luck trying to convince Jane Asher to do something she doesn’t want to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John finds himself smiling back. They both chuckle, so John offers a consolatory: “Poor bugger.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve seemed alright,” George observes. He shrugs, realizes it might be dangerous to say, but decides to go for it anyway: “I thought you might go a bit mad if he told you no.” John raises his eyebrows at him. “And well, now you’ve said he did, and I didn’t even notice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a grown man,” John says, earning an eye roll from George because they both know that what comes next hasn’t exactly proven itself to be true, at least until now. “I can keep my emotions in line.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Funny,” George allows, taking another long drag of his cigarette. John sees George shake his head and it makes him smile. He’s been unpredictable his whole life: volatile, emotional. He likes being unpredictable this way too: controlled, compassionate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” John starts, meaning to go serious again. George must feel it, because he turns to look at him, even leans forward on his seat. “I’ve always thought of love as this all-or-nothing thing, right?” George nods; he’s seen the consequences of that firsthand. “If I thought someone wasn’t loving me the right way, or not enough, or whatever, my head told me that meant they didn’t love me at all. And that’s not true, you know? Like: ‘my mother left me to be raised by my Auntie’ and ‘my mother loved me’ aren’t these two mutually exclusive things.” George swallows hard; John can tell he has a few choice words to say about that, so he tacks on: “I know it isn’t the way a mother is supposed to love their son, but it’s better to acknowledge the truth of both of those things, then to have gone on believing she didn’t love me at all. Because it </span>
  <em>
    <span>felt true</span>
  </em>
  <span>. At five years old, of course it </span>
  <em>
    <span>felt true</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she couldn’t have loved me, but it wasn’t. She still loved me. For the rest of her life, she loved me.” He can see George trying to understand, and John thinks he does, on some level, he understands these words to be true, but he’d grown up with a mother that loved him enough to stay. He can’t fathom a world where a mother could love her son and leave him anyway. So, John decides to go for the truth of it all. Bring it all back to him. “If I could acknowledge that double-feeling in other people, then I can start to see it and understand it in myself. I’m allowed to be angry -- I can acknowledge the fact that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am angry</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- and I can still love her. If she can’t be one without the other, then neither can I. And if I was just angry… Well, I don’t like that version of myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” George mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” John says, shrugging. “Paul is allowed to love me and not want to kiss me at the same time. He’s allowed that, so I’m allowed to be sad that he doesn’t want me, but happy that we’ve met at the same time too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” George allows. He tugs at the hem of his shirt and then sighs. “You know, I… I feel quite selfish for having been worried about the band.” John shakes his head at him, means to tell him it’s alright, but George doesn’t give him the chance. “It’s a sad thing,” George admits, and John hates it because it means that he has to admit to it too. He nods and looks down at the cigarette between his fingers, watches it burn. “I know, right now, it feels, maybe like, you’ve both been kind about it, and that you have it under control, but if it ever… Well, if it ever goes belly-up, you should be allowed to leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard. Remembers that version of himself in the toilets at the cinema: the one who’d wanted to put as much space between him and Paul until this started to hurt less, but had decided to stay anyway, to make sure his friends were happy and musical and creative and fulfilled. He wonders where he might be now, if he’d given in to running away. He realizes he wouldn’t have been wrong to do it, but he wouldn’t be here either. On the verge of enlightenment and self-awareness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’ll be a last resort, like,” he mumbles, because he can’t fully picture a version of himself that would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never leave</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” George agrees, even just the prospect of it making him sad. “You know I’d support you. If it ever came to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, offers a tight smile because there’s something so stifling about limitless gratitude. “Yeah, I know,” he manages. He hopes someone’s told Paul this too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s two quiet days before Rich and Paul arrive. They both look pale and weak with exhaustion. Rich laments that the press had been able to track them down and the airport was a mess by the time they’d landed. There’d been some confusion with their cars, and they’d been thrown into a few haphazard interviews when neither of them had been prepared for them. Paul stays quiet, nodding along as Rich tells the story. They both need to lie down, have something to eat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn and George help Rich and Mo, so John takes Paul. He grabs some fruit and water from his ashram and goes to where Paul’s been instructed. He walks in and Paul’s lying on his back, half on the bed, his feet still glued to the floor. His case has been opened, but he hasn’t pulled anything out from it yet. His arms are thrown over his forehead, crossed at the wrists, and even though John knows Paul’s heard him, he doesn’t sit up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I brought you something to eat,” John offers. He sets it down on the bedside table when Paul still doesn’t sit up. He does mumble a quiet ‘thank you’, so John sits down on the mattress next to him. He looks out over the empty ashram and realizes just how big it feels for one person. He’s glad he’d roomed with Cyn. He thinks these walls might eat him alive. He looks down at Paul and realizes that he’s probably thought the same thing already too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want some coffee?” John ventures. “Or, tea,” he suggests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Paul tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, then he reaches out for the shirt laid out on top of Paul’s case. “Okay,” he says. “Let me help you unpack then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul sits up and snatches the shirt back. He tosses it back down in the case, wrinkled in a pile. “Just leave it,” he hisses, and John wonders just how long it’s been since he’s slept. He tugs his case further up the bed, away from where John can reach it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ,” John mutters; he sees Paul shoot him a glare. “It’s like you’ve never even flown halfway across the world before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m tired,” Paul gripes. He turns away from John and lifts a few more things out of his case, idly unfolding them and refolding them. “We had a horrible flight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you hungover?” John pokes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul bristles just enough for John to know he’s right. He looks away from Paul to keep from smirking, but Paul catches him anyway. “I went out, yes, alright,” he seethes. “Doesn’t mean it still wasn’t horrible --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re too old to be doing that these days, Macca,” John scolds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul rolls his eyes again. “Yeah, well,” he mutters bitterly. “I knew I’d be going two months without a drink. Had to get my jollies somehow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One last hurrah,” John agrees sarcastically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> for me,” Paul suddenly bites, and he means it, so John stops smiling. He leans towards John and John finds himself leaning backward. “I don’t want to be here,” he continues through gritted teeth. “Alone, bloody sober. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He turns back to his case and continues pulling things out of it. “This is a fucking disaster,” he mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve only just arrived,” John tries. “It’s quite nice, you might find it helpful --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think I can meditate my way out of a broken engagement?” Paul demands. When John doesn’t seem to have an answer for him, he adds a quieter, “fuck off,” and John knows he doesn’t mean it personally. He’s saying it to the universe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” John says laconically. He lifts himself up off the bed. Paul watches him closely, like he’s afraid that John will listen to him, that John will hear ‘fuck off’ and never come back. “You should eat something,” he says, pointing to what he’d brought in with him. “Have a rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul drops his forehead into his hand, gives his head a small shake, and John sees it: he sees the way all the anger has left him. “Please don’t patronize me, John,” he manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not,” John tells him. “I’m telling you what you need.” He picks up an apple and tosses it Paul’s way. “You’re here,” he tells him. “You still came for a reason. You still came because you thought something might be here for you.” Paul looks up at him then, and something passes between them. Something that John chooses to ignore, because he looks at Paul and sees this for what it is: a moment of weakness, a moment of loneliness. Pointedly ignoring Paul’s voice in his head, John continues: “Whatever it is: peace of mind, music, a chance to get out of London.” Paul sees him deflect the thing he’s tried to pass him and he shrinks in on himself. “Have a rest, Paul,” John says again. “And really try to remember what that reason is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keeping his eyes down on the comforter in front of him, Paul nods sadly. “Okay,” he manages, so John nods back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes to the door. He thinks that Paul looks as though he wants to tell him something, but John doesn’t think he’d be able to hear him. He steps out of the ashram, down the steps, hurrying towards his own hut, and can’t stop hearing Paul’s voice inside his head, now unable to ignore it: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I came here for you.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He must bluster into the ashram a little too dramatically, because Cyn looks up at him from the book in her lap. She watches him fuss with the wardrobe, pulling out a proper shirt to change into from his sleep clothes. He hears the bed groan under her shifting weight. Before she can ask if everything’s alright, John tells her: “Paul’s in a piss-poor mood.” He glances over his shoulder at her, sees her start to nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They had a hard travel day,” she confirms. “Is he alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs, pulls the long-sleeved shirt in his hands over his head. “Once he has a rest and some food, he’ll be fine. He gets like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn sighs softly, then ventures: “Mo told me that he and Jane have broken off their engagement. Did you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keeping his eyes low, John shrugs again. “He’d mentioned it in the studio.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That must be bothering him,” Cyn says, and she sounds so bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>English</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it that it makes John want to laugh, but he can’t, because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> how much it’s bothering Paul -- knows how much it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>tearing him apart</span>
  </em>
  <span>, those are the better words. He knows because Paul had always been right: they’d always passed their feelings to one another, sharing them, lightening them between two people. John could feel everything: the loss, the nothingness, the confusion, because Paul had asked him to. Just by coming here, Paul had asked him to. But he doesn’t want to carry this. Not like he’d wanted to carry the weight of Paul’s mother over them both in France. He doesn’t want to carry this because he’s afraid that if he looks at it too long, he’ll see that he’s the root cause of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He really loved her,” he says, because beneath all of those feelings, Paul had shown him the truth of that as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s hard for him to be here,” she observes, and John just nods. He goes quiet, and Cyn notices it. She leans towards him. “Is everything alright between you two?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John glances over his shoulder at her, then diverts his eyes down towards the bunched-up comforter in front of her. “Yeah,” he manages. “I think so.” He shrugs again, looks up at her, and sees the way she’s watching him openly. He’d made her ask about Brian, he suddenly decides he doesn’t want her to have to ask about Paul too. “I suppose I just feel guilty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sits up a little straighter; she must be able to guess where this is going. “What for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunno,” he mumbles. “Suppose I’d always wondered what might happen if we both weren’t spoken for,” he tells her. She purses her lips at him and he knows it’s the wrong thing to have said. “I just feel guilty that I’d thought about something like this happening, and now it’s just sort of manifested itself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” she hums, but John can tell that she’s got another question on her mind: </span>
  <em>
    <span>what did you do?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Her silence drags it out of him. She makes him feel the way Mary does when he’s sitting on that sofa in her office. “I told him that I loved him,” he confesses. She exhales sharply, sets her book down, but she can’t look at him. “I shouldn’t have said anything, I know --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re in his head now, John,” she scolds. He nods because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He knows what he’s really guilty about. Paul thinks he’s wrecked everything: with John, with Jane, but it wasn’t really him at all. It was John in France. “Your love does that,” she tells him smartly, and she sounds sad enough that it makes John wonder why she’s never said this to him before. “It makes people feel like they’ll never get more like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t lying,” he defends. “I wasn’t trying to manipulate anything --” he starts, but then he has to pause and wonder if he had been. He remembers Mary telling him that his abandonment issues might make him do that sort of thing, but she’d never said that’s what this was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you weren’t,” Cyn mutters. She shakes her head. “You can’t help how you feel,” she allows. “And you shouldn’t have to live with something like that inside you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He told me no anyway,” he tells her. Her eyes flicker up towards him and he hates how sorry she looks. “He told me he didn’t love me in that way. So…” He hears Cyn sigh heavily. “So, if I’m in his head now, it’s just because he’s confused. And lonely. And… I don’t want that to be the beginning of anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you can’t just stop loving him,” she tells him sympathetically. “But maybe this is a moment you two can start over from.” He finds himself nodding. “The two of you are connected in a way I don’t understand. Maybe this is the universe telling you to rebuild.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That prospect sounds so appealing, so enlightening, so awfully exciting that John notices the way his heart is beating behind his chest. He sees Paul the way he had the day they met one another: slightly shy and brimming with devastation. He’d unwittingly rebuilt Paul once before, who knew what he could do when he was rebuilding him deliberately. “You’re taking these lessons quite seriously,” he tells her wryly because he realizes she’s struck a nerve too close, too precious, to fully acknowledge, so he has to make a joke of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles at him, then starts to blush. “Well, it’s a rebuild for me too,” she tells him, and John feels his smile go a bit more solemn. “I like the idea of sharing that with other people.” John nods, because he realizes he likes that idea too. He sits down on the bed next to her, just because he can, just because he wants to be near someone who understands him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you tried any of it?” John asks her. He reaches out for her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “What he taught us in Wales?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn shrugs, but there’s something of a smile on her face, so John smiles too. “A bit here and there,” she tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, lets his grin go a little wider. “I think it’ll work,” he says, and he means the meditation, he means the time away, the time together, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>rebuild</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He must say it with enough confidence for the both of them because Cynthia smiles wider too and she nods along with him, like he’s made her believe him. He gives her temple a kiss, lifts himself up off the bed, but he slows down when he feels her tug at his hand. He looks down at her, and it gives him pause. She’s still smiling, but she’s telling him: remember this moment, and John thinks he will. For the rest of his life, he will. No matter where or who he ends up with. He thinks Cyn must be feeling the same way. He realizes that she’s passed that feeling to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks he must be some kind of beacon. Some kind of receptor. He takes her love and holds it close to his chest, where it can live safely forever. He hopes she’ll do the same with his. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John thinks that Paul looks better at their first lesson. He still seems a bit frazzled, and John thinks that everyone must notice that there’s this empty space beside him for someone who loves him. John thinks Paul must notice everyone noticing. It is a bit dreadful, John realizes. He wonders if he would have been able to still fly over and try to find meaning and peace through this haze of aloneness and loss. He realizes he wouldn’t. He’d chosen not to all those months ago when this opportunity had presented itself just after Brian died. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been so afraid to lose himself on his journey to understanding the universe. Paul must be so afraid. He’d look into the darkness for peace and contentment, but he was deathly afraid to find the other things he’d spent so long burying deep in his psyche. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re being taught deep breathing, to allow your mind to follow that breath. John realizes he’s already learned a version of this with Mary. He suddenly understands why it worked. It quiets him down, roots him back in with the world, rather than inside his own mind. He realizes that when he’s panicking, it finds his way back, but when he followed his breath through calmness, he didn’t yet know where he could find his way to. He didn’t know, but the prospect excited him. He remembers the moment he’d spent meditating with George during </span>
  <em>
    <span>Magical Mystery Tour</span>
  </em>
  <span>, when he’d gone somewhere for the first time and just felt so at peace. He’d found that peace accidentally. He supposes that’s what this whole thing is about: treating those accidental experiences deliberately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances over his shoulder at Paul and he realizes that nothing about this excites him. He realizes that Paul’s been taught this before too. And it doesn’t make him feel safer or more in control, he feels lost and at the whim of the memory of himself in the men’s toilets in that cinema, with John in front of him, telling him to do exactly this, telling him that it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span> that they’d never managed to love one another at the same time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns back forward, closes his eyes, and refocuses on his breath. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, in his mind, all he knows is that he feels quite peaceful, but he still doesn’t go anywhere. He supposes deliberation must take some time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s chatter somewhere behind him; John tries to ignore it before he realizes that it’s Paul whispering politely with someone. He opens his eyes and sees that a few of the other students have done the same -- clearly not far enough along in their learning that they can keep so focused as to ignore hushed voices. He finds Paul leaning towards the teacher, shrugging helplessly, then his hand goes up to his forehead, and John thinks he hears the word ‘ill’, but he knows that can’t be what’s happening, because Paul isn’t passing him the feeling of illness, he’s passing him fear and anxiety. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teacher is clearly trying to convince him to stay, but John knows that Paul won’t. When he has something in his head, he always needs to follow it. Paul huffs out an impatient sigh, then his eyes dart around the class, clearly trying to find a way out, before they land on John watching him. He goes so still that John’s afraid he’s broken him. He looks as lost as he had that day at the cinema, and John realizes that there isn’t much time before he won’t be able to find his breath at all, never mind be able to follow it. Their instructor finally relents and lets Paul go find some water, maybe something to eat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After they finish the first exercise, John slips off to find him. He’s out behind his ashram, looking out at the forest jungle beyond the camp. He’s down on the ground, getting the seat of his pants covered in dirt. There’s a guitar across his lap, but John doesn’t think he’s used it. Paul glances at him as soon as he hears him coming closer, then he sighs, and hangs his chin down towards his chest. John sits down next to him. He hears Paul sigh again, so he drums a light beat against the body of Paul’s guitar. Paul looks down at his hand, then offers a shy smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Inspiration’s struck, then?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Paul mutters bitterly. He tugs his guitar away from John’s hand and sets it down on the ground next to him. He looks so much smaller without it. “Who am I even writing for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yourself, I hope,” John says, but he barely hears himself because Paul speaks over him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jane’s gone. And people don’t even like us anymore,” he says. John shakes his head; he wishes there was a way to make Paul not care about what other people thought. “We got knocked out,” he continues, and John realizes he’s actually angry. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Magical Mystery Tour</span>
  </em>
  <span> had flopped harder than anything they’d ever done before. It flopped harder than John saying they were bigger than Jesus. “We were fucked, and we just wanted to make art out of it, and they didn’t even like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We did it to keep our heads straight,” John offers. “Who cares if they didn’t like it, did it do </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> for you?” Paul swallows hard. He lifts his head and looks out into the forest. John finally sees what’s actually made him so angry: the project had failed commercially and artistically, but it had also failed Paul personally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he tells John, then he shakes his head, and repeats, like it’s the worst confession he’s ever made: “no, it didn’t.” Some bitter thing, meant to be a laugh, leaves Paul. “You were right,” he says. “We needed more time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing we can do about it now,” John tries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I came here because I’ve always fought loss with work,” he says, so John wires his mouth shut. “I thought I should try losing something and just sitting quiet with it,” he admits. “But when it’s too quiet, I just think about… Well, the people who should be here with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, thinks of Brian in a way that makes him sad for the first time in weeks. He realizes, behind all that recovery and acceptance, there would always be the petulant lament: </span>
  <em>
    <span>he should be here with me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, the night Jane left,” he says, and his voice is quiet enough that just the sound of it makes John want to cry. “I went to the Saville Theatre.” John exhales sharply. “I wanted to go back to something, I suppose.” John looks away. He doesn’t want to be the first one to cry. He wonders if this is the most Paul’s talked about Brian, about what losing Brian had done to him, since that first night they’d gotten back to London from Bangor. “I always forget about this part,” he says, and John knows exactly what he means: that black part of grief where John had been on the film -- the part where he didn’t care if he ever waded through it. Consciously, or unconsciously, Paul has been in that part for over three months now. The thought of it, of Paul stuck there, makes his chest hurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should have told me you were having such a hard time,” John tries, but Paul just shakes his head and says: “You had enough to deal with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath, tries not to feel guilty about his own grief, and decides to pull back into this moment, right now, with Paul in front of him. “Maybe it felt like it was too much to deal with a few months ago,” he allows, and Paul looks at him, sympathetic and earnest. “But it doesn’t feel that way anymore, so.” Paul inhales deeply, like he can’t wait to be able to say that himself. “So, hand something off if you need it. I’ll take it.” Paul looks down at the grass between his feet and starts to nod. John isn’t sure he’s actually ready to listen to that piece of advice, but he looks ready to internalize it. So, John gives him the burden of proof: when Paul would be ready to talk about it, he’d figure out how to come out on the other side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I started seeing a doctor, you know,” he says. Paul’s eyes go wide, so John amends: “A therapist,” because he supposes that truth has to be the whole point of it. “She taught me how to talk about all this stuff. I think that’s what made this all easier to deal with.” Paul nods slightly. “So, whether it’s this,” he adds, gesturing to the camp around them. “Or, it’s that,” meaning therapy, “you’ve just got to give yourself into it. I reckon it’s the only way to quiet everything down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods again, then hugs his knees up closer to his chest. “Do they make you talk about Julia?” he asks and John realizes Paul’s thought about this before -- seeking help -- but he’s just been so afraid that they’ll dig up the one thing that would never stop being painful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs and offers: “Only when she can tell I want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul sighs, then says: “I reckon a lot of it goes back to that, doesn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hears himself laugh; it makes Paul look at him, and somewhere, he finds the strength to smile back. John realizes that strength comes from being together: forged that way through similar losses. He’s glad he can be that person for Paul, even if it meant having a scar he never liked looking at. “Yeah,” he allows. “It’s quite formative, unfortunately.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul laughs then too and nods. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Formative</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he repeats with a smile. “Right.” He chews on his cheek and John can tell he’s got something important to say, so he tries to give him that time and space. “You know,” he finally stammers. “That breathing stuff we were doing,” he starts. He takes another deep breath and dives in head-first. “It made me think of that day at your premiere.” John nods, though he supposes he’d known all along. “It made me feel like it was happening again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The breathing thing works,” John allows, hoping that Paul won’t just remember the bad, that he’d remember the two of them working together to bring Paul back down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I suppose so,” Paul manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry for that day, for making you feel that way,” John suddenly tells him. “I never told you that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I wouldn’t let you,” Paul defends fiercely. “I still won’t,” he adds, even though he’s just finished telling him how alone he feels after Jane’s left him. It means something -- it means everything between them. John swallows down the urge to tell him again: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because he’s afraid that Paul will see this for what it is: a moment of weakness, together. They were meant to be this way: together, but if they were meant to kiss one another, they would have found their way there by now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think that we could start over?” John asks, remembering that this is meant to be a rebuild. Paul furrows his brow at him, then shifts a little closer. “You know I’m sorry and that I love you,” he says. “And I know you feel both of those things too.” Paul swallows hard, the truth of that feels too heavy. Paul’s eyes go softer and John feels it all: just how sorry he is, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>how much</span>
  </em>
  <span> he loves him. “Maybe we can just forgive each other of everything and start over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul exhales a shaky breath, because he knows that, even though John’s speaking about the both of him, he’s just told Paul that he forgives him. He doesn’t want to tell John that John still doesn’t have anything to be forgiven for, but the weight of forgiveness is too heavy to even let him open his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think we could do that?” John asks again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Paul nods quickly, then, like he needs to hear John say it, he manages: “You’d forgive me?” His voice shakes on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would,” John answers, then shrugs helplessly. “I have,” he amends, and he sees Paul set his jaw and his eyes go glassy. He swallows down the urge to cry, and John wishes he wouldn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think we can go back?” Paul asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we’ll build something different,” John answers and it makes Paul sigh. Different scares him, but different could be good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John realizes that rebuilding Paul might be the most significant thing he can do with his life. He sees that Paul’s realized the same thing. It makes him smile, so despite himself, Paul smiles back. He sniffles once, pulls it together, and John sees him decide to throw himself into this entirely. He sits up a little straighter, John sees him rest the back of his head against the outer wall of his ashram, and he takes a deep breath in, counts: </span>
  <em>
    <span>one, two, three, four</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and exhales slowly, rooting himself here, next to John, both with calm hearts, deciding to hope for calmer minds for one another. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They finish up their lessons early and John finds himself on the floor of Paul’s ashram, his legs crossed, and a guitar in his lap. Paul’s up on the bed, flat on his back, smoking a cigarette, humming along to John’s strumming. John closes his eyes, hums his own melody back, a few words have found their places, but it’s still mostly nonsense. He shuts his eyes a little tighter, but can’t stop thinking about how much he loves the sound of Paul’s voice, even when he isn’t properly singing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul’s voice had always been so smooth where John’s had been rough; so sure of itself and harmonious. Beautiful, in even the shortest of bursts, sweet monosyllables that often sound like his own name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna make me lose the melody,” John gripes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears Paul laugh so he opens his eyes and glances up at him on the bed, watches him roll onto his stomach and crawl closer to the edge of the mattress to peer down at John below him. “I’m giving you a better melody,” he amends with a grin. “You’re welcome, Lennon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John rolls his eyes, then gives it another go. He closes his eyes and sings his own melody, but hears Paul’s voice joining him in his head, and hears him put a harmony to it. Paul listens quietly, then nods when John’s finished: “You’re right, yours is the one,” he allows. John gives a curt nod, mumbles a sarcastically fond: “ya git,” as he unfolds his legs, stands, and sets his guitar down against the far wall. By the time he makes it back to the bed, Paul’s rolled onto his back again, there’s a dramatic sigh on his lips. John lays down next to him, holds his hand out to split Paul’s smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Handing it off, Paul says: “We’re meant to be here two months, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John narrows his eyes at him. “You can leave whenever you like,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it isn’t about wanting to leave,” Paul adds quickly. “I just… Two months. I think this will be the longest I’ve ever gone without a snog.” John closes his eyes, takes a long drag of the cigarette, then decides to allow himself to laugh. Paul laughs too, then glances at John. “That’s probably not very healthy, is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, then tells him: “Just say you’re randy, son, it’s allowed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul jabs him in the ribs with his elbow. “Come off it,” he mutters, but he goes red enough that John knows he’s hit the mark. Then, he props his chin into one hand and shifts closer to John. “Bloody hell,” he says, suddenly realizing: “How long have </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> gone without a shag? You’re about to see another two dry months yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s John’s turn to go red, so he says: “I’ll survive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t been with anyone since you moved out, then?” Paul asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath, mumbles a shy: “Er… Well, not exactly.” Paul raises his eyebrows at him. “Well, I was with that Jack fella…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Robert’s Jack?” Paul asks. When John nods, Paul sits up, so John knows he should too. “You never told me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We weren’t really speaking much,” John allows. That looks to hit Paul harder than John thought it might. He chews on the inside of his cheek, and suddenly can’t seem to look at him. “It happened when you were up in Scotland. We were at some party and I went home with him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, and his voice goes small when he says: “I’m sorry.” It’s unexpected enough that John can’t manage to ask what for, before Paul tacks on: “that’s something you should have been able to talk to me about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard; he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to tell Paul, after all. He shrugs, tells him the truth, because it was his own fault they’d been so fraught anyway. “It’s alright,” he tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was it…” Paul catches himself before he says any of the words blokes might use about a mate getting laid. “Was it affirming?” he asks, and it’s deliberate and kind enough that it makes John’s chest hurt. He realizes how much he’s wanted to be asked. He realizes how much he wants to say it: “Yes,” he tells Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul seems to breathe a little easier. He sits up a little straighter and he offers John such a genuine, compassionate smile that he wishes he’d reach out and hug him instead. “I’m glad,” Paul tells him, and he means it with everything he has. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I knew I’d like to do it,” John stammers. Paul nods, encouraging him along. “But it… I don’t know, it made everything fit right. Do you know what I mean?” Paul keeps nodding, even though John isn’t sure that he understands. “I’d done everything else with Brian, so I knew I’d like it, I just… It made me so nervous when I was a kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Paul allows. “Do you think you’ll still be with women?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs. “I suppose if the right one came along,” he says. “It was beginning to feel a bit like a performance, really,” he says, and he sees himself losing Paul. “With anyone but Cyn, it was like I was just trying to be the sort of person everybody wanted me to be. I felt much more like myself when I was with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good,” Paul tells him. “You’ve seemed much happier since you’ve come out with the whole thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, offers a wry grin and says: “Funny what a little bit of truth will do to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul looks back down at his hands. He nods, like he knows that to be true, but that sort of honesty still frightened him. It frightens him, but still he blurts out: “I’ve kissed Bob before, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can stop it, John feels himself narrow his eyes at Paul. “You what?” Paul only nods as confirmation, so John asks: “When?” He holds his breath and hears his own voice, saying over and over: </span>
  <em>
    <span>please don’t be Paris.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Because he hopes that Paris ought to be something for them, something special. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few months ago,” Paul allows. “When they made it legal.” John sighs, and thinks of himself and Brian, that morning, how they’d wanted to do nothing but kiss one another, and he realizes that there were so many mornings just like that, for so many people. It makes the world feel warmer, less alienating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The law never stopped you before,” John manages, getting a grin back from Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he confirms. “I think he must have just been happy.” John nods because he knows Robert must have been a lot of things; happy just being the simplest of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you think you’d ever like to do it again?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul looks like he shrinks in on himself. He shrugs, and keeps his chin down towards his chest. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “I didn’t really think about it much. I suppose I tried not to think about it much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What would happen if you thought about it too much?” John ventures, and he doesn’t know where he’s ever gotten the nerve. Where Paul has too, because Paul looks up at him, and their eyes lock, and the room falls away to nothingness, all that matters is the fact that they’re together, seeing one another in the irises of their eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Paul whispers, not wanting to break the thing between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t offer much in terms of an answer and John thinks that if Paul had wanted to kiss him, he could have done it right then and there, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, but something pierces through him, through them both. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They weren’t not kissing because neither of them wanted to. They weren’t kissing because Paul was afraid. Afraid, the same way John had been with Brian. John had needed Brian all those years, needed to hear him say the one thing he knew he needed to tell Paul now. “You know,” he says, and Paul hangs onto every word. “It wouldn’t change anything if you thought you’d liked it. You’d still be Paul. You’d just be showing me another part of yourself, and it’d just make me care about you more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul stays locked where he is. Something passes between them, but it’s too convoluted for John to understand. It’s thousands of words spoken over one another at the same time. It’s every note played by every instrument ever invented played at the same time. It’s chaotic and heavy and beautiful and terrifying all at once. It’s an orchestral build -- one they’ve played before. And John realizes he knows where this ends. Paul doesn’t yet, but John knows. It ends on a simple chord: one pure chord played on every piano EMI Studios could produce. It ends on an epiphany, it would just take a few more measures to get there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul would find it. Paul would find it the way he could always find music. John would just have to wait a couple more bars. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just like everything else, there’s a light and a dark to this,” one of the yogis explains to them one morning. “You can never reach positive enlightenment without acknowledging the negative.” John inhales deeply. He knows a thing or two about acknowledging the negative. Next to him, he feels Paul start to idly bounce one knee up and down. John fights down the urge to reach out and touch him, to quiet him down. “Your shadow comes with you everywhere you go,” they say and John finds himself nodding. He realizes his own shadow had grown bigger than himself. It had consumed everything for so long. He smiles and thinks of Mary’s business card in his wallet in the ashram. He suddenly wants to call her and tell her that she should be a guru. He thinks she’d get a laugh out of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He likes being here, sitting cross-legged in the sun amongst friends, but he realizes he didn’t have to come. Mary had already shown him how to swim; that’s all any of this was. Something to build meaning out of. John had found meaning already. He’d known it all along: meaning would always come from the love shared between him and the people he’s closest to. He’d known it, but Mary had shown him how to make that love tangible. To make it more than a word and something to actually be felt and shared. He closes his eyes and thinks about the peace she’s afforded him. It’s the sort of quietness he’d never thought he deserved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, when they’re tasked with facing their own shadows through letters, John decides he’ll write one to her. And his second would be to Julian. The former, he thinks he could tell Mary about at their next session, the latter… Well, John hopes that one day he’s brave enough to tell his son everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finishes them both in bed that night next to Cynthia. She quietly works on her own next to him, gripping her pencil like she might break it in half. She glances over at him, at the words he’s already written and sighs impatiently. “How do you know what you want to write so quickly?” she laments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John pauses, looks up at her and can see the way her cheeks have gone a bit pink, the way her eyes have gone slightly glassy. “I’m just putting it all down,” he tries sympathetically. “I’ll read it over and try to make some sense of it later. Put it into words I can actually say, eventually.” She pales at the prospect. She glances back down at her own work and swallows hard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean to say any of this?” she asks, and John feels himself go stiff with nerves. He’d supposed that had to be the point: acknowledge the negative and put it into words that you can break down and understand, in hopes that someday, you might be able to do something about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so,” he manages. “I don’t know,” he amends when she raises her eyebrows at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you writing to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs, ignores his first letter and focuses on the second. “Jools,” he says, and he hears her shudder on the air in her lungs. “I don’t think I mean to tell him any time soon,” he says. “I just want to make sure I’ve done everything I can to have him know me.” Cyn nods, then lays a kiss down on his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think we’re good parents?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs; he’s always hated that question, mostly because he knows the answer. “He loves you,” he tells her. “You’re a good Mum. The best.” She wraps her arms around the crook of his elbow and tugs herself closer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” she mutters against the fabric of his t-shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be better: a better person, a better husband, maybe, but more than anything, he wants to be a better father. He thinks of Jim McCartney, coming to see his son, deep in his twenties, just to be sure that he’s alright. He thinks of his Uncle George, crawling up the stairs at Mendips, pulling along a cable from the radio so John could listen to music in his bedroom. He wants to be that sort of father; the one who would be there, would understand, and would just love anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers sitting down with Julian in his bedroom, that night he’d decided to see Mary. He remembers looking down at him and wanting a life for him that was better than his own in every way he could think of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to try to see him every day,” he suddenly says. “If we can manage it, do you think I could try?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glances up at him and offers him a sad smile. She nods, but they both know it probably won’t work out that way. They’ll both get busy and it just won’t be possible. There will be lawyers and judges involved and it just won’t be possible. But still, she nods, anyway. And she just means that John will see him as much as their situation allows him, and maybe that’s all John had meant with it too. He just wants Julian to see him try. He wants Julian to know he’s fighting for moments with him every day. He doesn’t ever want to make him guess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both sigh at the same time, so John thinks they must be thinking the same thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Six more weeks, right?” Cyn asks; she laughs so John does too. With Julian in his head, he’d be lucky to last another day. Cyn looks like she wants to hop on a plane right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both glance at one another, then John takes a look at his watch and does the math in his head: they’ll catch him during dinner if they call back home now. Without a word, they both climb out of bed, pull on sweaters and step into their shoes. Cyn holds his hand the whole way to the telephone in the main building and they can’t stop giggling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next morning, he wakes up feeling lighter than he has since he arrived, lighter than any of the lessons have been able to make him feel, and he knows it’s because he heard his kid’s voice, because he was able to make him laugh, even halfway across the world. It’s enough to make him wonder: </span>
  <em>
    <span>what am I even doing here?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He sits down with Pattie and George, and he thinks that they look lighter too. He realizes that all of it was a part of the work. The letters, but also what the letters made him and Cyn do. They’d looked deep into the negative and found the positive on the other side: the security of the family they’d built with one another. He realizes it’s working, it’s all working: the meditation, the retreat, his work with Mary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rich and Mo join them next and Rings tells him: “It all just always came back to the kids. Everything I wrote.” John smiles and tells him about he and Cyn’s late-night adventure to find a telephone. It makes everybody smile, and it makes John realize that Paul hasn’t joined them yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We knocked on his door on our way past,” Mo says, turning to Rich. “Didn’t we?” Rings nods as confirmation. “He said he wasn’t hungry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels Cyn’s hand on his knee, giving it an urgent squeeze. “You ought to bring him something,” she tells him. “He shouldn’t skip breakfast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, then looks back to Ringo. “Did he seem alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo shrugs. “I can’t read him on this trip,” he admits. “Never know how he is. If he’s having a good time, or if he’s bloody miserable.” John feels Cyn’s hand at his knee again, so he nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll check on him, then,” he decides. He collects a box of what’s left of their breakfast and brings it with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul hardly looks up at him when he steps inside in the ashram. He’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed with a few sheets of paper scattered around him, another on top of a book in his lap to scribble onto. John sets the box of food down on the bedside table, taps the top of it for emphasis. Paul glances up from his work and furrows his brow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that?” he asks before his eyes return to the piece of paper in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakfast,” John answers. Paul just shrugs dismissively, so John leans forward to steal a glance at what Paul’s written. Then, he takes in the way Paul’s hair looks mussed, and his eyes look a little bloodshot. He wonders how late he’d stayed up, working. “That’s a lot of words, mate,” John observes, hoping for neutrality, but it gives Paul pause. He glances up at John, looking ready to fight if it ever came to it. “Who are you writing to?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He realizes it isn’t any of his business before the question even leaves his lips. He’s expecting Paul to tell him it’s all been written for his mother, so when Paul says: “Jane,” it nearly knocks the wind out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” John manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul looks to go a bit red; John realizes he’s embarrassed that he’s got so much to say to someone who won’t speak to him. “Well, I suppose it started that way, but it’s got a bit of everything in it. Things I never told her that maybe I ought to have,” he says, shrugging helplessly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whoever it’s for,” John says. “It looks like you needed to get it out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul looks up at him, gracious to be taken seriously, and he nods. He sets his pencil down and takes a look at everything he’s written, collects a few of the loose sheets into a pile. John watches him take a deep breath, watches him decide to be vulnerable, so he sits down on the mattress next to him. “There’s stuff in here that I didn’t even realize was still bothering me,” he admits; he looks glad to have John so close so he doesn’t have to speak these insecurities so loudly. John nods reassuringly, then Paul reaches out for one of the sheets. “I’ve written a whole page on Tara. I didn’t think I missed him so much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels something grab hold of his heart and it doesn’t let go. He thinks of he and Paul, trading off losses like the universe was meaning to do it. What Paul lost, John would lose too. And what John lost, Paul would lose too. John had lost Stuart and Paul must have realized it was only a matter of time before he lost a friend of his own. They were inexplicably linked, forced to grieve simply because they were always meant to be two sides of the same coin. One could never be more broken than the other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was your friend,” John tells him, because that should be enough. That should be enough to not feel guilty about your own sadness, it should be enough to keep those people around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, manages a sad, “yeah,” before he looks up at John and he looks so sincere and loving that John finds himself holding his breath. “Johnny?” he says, and John can only nod in response. “I know we’re still trying to figure everything out, but I love you,” he says and John hears himself sigh sharply. He nods again, he can’t believe that that’s all he can do. Paul glances back down at his letter and John knows Paul never got to say to Tara what he was about to say to John. “I don’t ever want you to wonder if that’s true,” he says, nodding to himself. John can’t seem to speak, and now, Paul can’t seem to look at him. He supposes love has that sort of power. “It’s true,” Paul confirms. “It will always be true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Paul looks up at him, and John knows that means he has to figure out a way to say something. He swallows hard and pushes the words out from somewhere deep inside his chest. “I know it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know why I can’t just be --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head. “You don’t have to be anything you’re not. Not for me,” John assures him. He thinks he sees Paul shake his head and it makes him wonder if they’re having two different conversations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just love you,” Paul repeats with enough urgency that John wires his mouth shut. “I wish I would show you properly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have,” John assures him, but it isn’t enough. For Paul, it isn’t enough. John glances down at the sheets of paper between them and he wonders how much Paul’s written about him. He suddenly wonders what Paul might have said if John hadn’t interrupted him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know why I can’t just be…</span>
  </em>
  <span> Be what? John had assumed the worst: queer, like you, what you need. But now, as he watches Paul pick up the loose sheets around them and tuck them all into a neat pile, away from John, away from them both, he wonders if he’d meant: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know why I can’t just be the type of man to say what I’ve written down.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John suddenly remembers the first night he’d spent with Brian after Spain, after Brian had forgiven him for the way he’d been at Paul’s birthday party. He remembers kissing him, but feeling frozen at the prospect of doing anything else. He’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. He’d wanted that first time to be with Brian, but he couldn’t do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John had come to recognize the power that a little honesty had in his life, but he hadn’t fully grasped how much power a little shame had too. It made you something you weren’t. It made you afraid and angry, and John had spent all those angry and afraid years with Brian. And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>remembers</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>remembers</span>
  </em>
  <span> Brian not allowing himself to be angry and afraid right back. He didn’t push him into anything. He kissed him when he knew John wanted to be kissed, and stopped when he knew John wanted to stop. And whenever he wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>, whenever he got too angry and afraid, like that first night after Spain, Brian would give his forehead one last kiss and then they’d just </span>
  <em>
    <span>be together</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Quietly, not touching, until John wanted to come back. And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted to come back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He realizes all the best things he’s ever learned, he’s learned from Brian. So, even though he’s found it hard to speak, found it hard to understand Paul, he doesn’t find it hard to lean forward, place his hands gently on Paul’s cheeks and pull Paul towards him for a kiss to the forehead that says everything: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’ll be alright, we’ll be whatever you need us to be</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he hears Paul say towards his chest, like if he says it close enough to his heart, he might be able to mend the damage he’s done. And John thinks he’s never done any damage, not really, because there wouldn’t be a heart there at all if he hadn’t met Paul anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks of the version of himself that hadn’t met Paul, probably in some prison somewhere, knowing that there had to be more, but never ever being able to understand just how much. He imagines that version of himself, looking up at the stars at night, realizing that if his soul came from one of them, there had to be someone else who came from that same burning stone, and wondering what it would mean if he ever met that person. Would they just combust together? Turn back into the star they were made from? Or would they keep their own bodies and just suddenly learn how to burn brighter?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John had found Paul -- John had found the other soul that came from where his came from, but he still didn’t understand what had happened between them. They’d done it all: they’d combusted, they’d burned brighter, and they’d turned it all into music. All that dust from the star they came from, they’d been able to bottle it and show it to everyone through their songs. He wonders if that’s why people had bought their records all this time: they could see stars in them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When John pulls back, he thinks he sees himself in front of him instead of Paul. He loses where either of them begins or ends. He stares back into his own eyes and realizes that when he learned to love himself properly, he learned to love everyone else that way too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything passes between them, his own face turns back to Paul’s and it knocks the wind out of them both. They’re back and John feels Paul’s hair beneath his fingers, the stubble on his cheeks and hears Paul’s voice inside his head: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I found you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> John rests his chin down on the body of his guitar. He closes his eyes and listens to the way Donovan plays. It’s melodic in a way that he’s never been able to make his sound. Slowly, he opens his eyes and watches his fingers, watches his picking style, but he’s moving too quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you teach me that rhythm?” he asks when the music stops. On his other side, he feels Paul pause. John thinks he’d like to learn as well, but he’d never have </span>
  <em>
    <span>asked</span>
  </em>
  <span>. When Donovan furrows his brow, John clarifies: “the picking, I mean, it’s quite nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Donovan answers with a laugh. “I forget I’m doing it,” he says flippantly. “I’m not even sure I know how I do it,” he adds with a laugh. He tries to slow it down, tries to get his body to quit working on muscle memory. It makes John wonder what he does without meaning to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul plays something next to him, trying to ignore the lesson going on around him. But John’s tuned in, he just watches Donovan until he’s able to get it right at a pace slow enough for John to copy. It’s quite a complex thing. John gets it down slowly. It makes him feel like a kid again, learning something new, taking it all slow while things still felt alien to his body. He notices that whenever he gives it a go, Paul will stop playing next to him and just listen. It makes John smile: he does want to learn it too, he’ll just learn it by ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling light and musical and bursting with something new, John and Paul try a meditation session together that evening. They find themselves a secluded little piece of the camp, surrounded by trees and close enough to running water that John thinks it might all be able to take him somewhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes, takes deep breaths and tries to clear his mind. He hears the rushing water, hears the wind in the trees around him and the birdsong, and he hears Paul’s own steady breathing next to him, and it all lifts him somewhere. All these sounds stay there, rooting him in nature, rooting him in the world, but his mind and body go soft. They go intangible, until he just feels like a swirl of energy taking up space in the world the way it had been intended. It’s so peaceful to leave himself, to quit thinking in that so-human way: </span>
  <em>
    <span>me, me, me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And just let his soul, whatever it is, have a run-around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks it must help to have another energy next to him. He thinks they must be looking for one another. Where his ball of light goes, Paul’s would follow and vice-versa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how it happens, his mind isn’t so in the driver’s seat that he’s able to </span>
  <em>
    <span>decide</span>
  </em>
  <span> to make it happen, but somewhere along the way, he thinks his soul must turn around and see Paul’s following it. It’s this great, blue thing that overwhelms everything. It fills everything around him, before he realizes that his own must be doing the same for Paul’s. He wonders what colour he looks like to Paul, and the mind power required to wonder that is enough to tear him out of the moment. He opens his eyes and catches Paul doing the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time since he’s arrived, John thinks Paul doesn’t look afraid. How close they are, how close they’d just been doesn’t frighten him. He exhales deeply and John sees that it isn’t just that, it’s made him feel peace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Paul hums. He closes his eyes and puts a hand to his chest, feeling contented that his soul has found its way back to him. “That was a good one. That’ll last me a few days,” he says, and John realizes that he’s right. All the anxieties of the world haven’t bled back into him yet. All of his hang-ups, his insecurities, they’ve left him this peace for a little while. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel so neurotic and it makes him feel so light, like he can do or be anything without worry or shame or guilt. He wonders if this is just how life feels to some people and if he’s somehow found his way back to a time before the world had forced its way of thinking on him, or if he’s found something deeper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John mumbles back. He shakes out two cigarettes for them, then rests his weight down on one elbow, stretching his legs out in front of him. He lights both cigarettes in his mouth, then offers one to Paul. Paul takes it, stretching out himself and John thinks he looks like a god, he doesn’t know which one, but he looks so a part of the universe around him that he must be able to control it in some way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They smoke their cigarettes quietly until a small black-and-white bird lands a few feet in front of them. It picks at a few places in the ground, before it turns and sees them, freezing in place. John holds his breath, hoping that if he doesn’t move, it might stay. Beside him, Paul smiles, cocks his head to one side. The bird tentatively hops forward, studying them the way animals do. Slowly, Paul starts to sit up and John thinks he’ll scare it away. It chirps something at them and Paul laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another bird, somewhere far off, chirps a similar song, so the one in front of them takes off to find it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still smiling, Paul lays back down on his elbow. John studies him a moment, then asks: “It say something funny?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul throws him a languid glance, then shrugs. “I just like them,” Paul allows. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, lets his head loll slightly backward. He closes his eyes and lets John in on something he never has before: “When I was living with my Auntie, she used to tell me that people could find us through birds. That if I ever had a run-in with one, someone was probably trying to tell me something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs, wonders what it had meant that he hadn’t wanted the bird to leave him. “Did you believe her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Paul scoffs, then he shrugs. “Maybe I used to pretend I did,” he tells him. “I used to pretend that every bird must have been my mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we were just visited by the infamous Mary McCartney?” John asks, saying her name with such reverence, because he knows she deserves it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunno,” Paul mumbles around a mouthful of smoke. “I think I’d like to pretend that one was Brian.” John hears Paul say Brian’s name the same way he had just used Mary’s. It makes him lose the breath in his lungs. But he nods, because he thinks he’d like to too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’d be nice,” he manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, then shifts closer to John. “You’re keeping him with us,” he says. John looks up at him, afraid that his own sadness and devastation might be keeping Brian somewhere he didn’t want to be, so Paul assures him: “In a good way. I feel him around me whenever I’m with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods again. He’s left wondering if he’d ever feel Brian leave him. He still thinks about him every day. Whenever he realizes how good he feels, he thinks of Brian, and how lucky he’d been to be the man that Brian just cared more about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re making this easier,” Paul suddenly tells him. “I don’t know how, but you always make this easier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad,” John croaks, and before he even finishes, before he can understand what’s happening, Paul’s pressing his lips to John’s. There’s a hand at the back of his neck, making sure he doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t bloody want to. He closes his eyes and just lets Paul kiss him. He feels electric where Paul’s touching him; he feels alive and whole in a way he can’t explain. He feels himself here, in Rishikesh, but also on some astral plane, mixing his own light with Paul’s blue one. He feels himself here, but he also feels himself in Cavendish, he feels himself at Gambier Terrace, he feels himself in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Paris</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he goes cold with nerves. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Paris…</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s the place where all this started, and he thinks of Cynthia: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re in his head now.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Paul had been given a choice in Paris. He’d chosen Jane. He knows that they’re rebuilding something strong, something tangible, but he can’t help feeling like the foundation is all wrong. Like it’s all built on Paul’s guilt, his fear of being left alone in the world, and John had made him feel all those things. He’d been the active aggressor in making Paul feel those things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still chilled with nerves, with anxiety, John puts his hand on Paul’s chest and forces some space between them. Paul misses his breath against his lips immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” Paul asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you tell Jane about me?” John finally asks. “Is that why she left?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where Paul had needed John to push him away, now he pulls away on his own volition. His eyes dart out towards the trees around them and he starts to fidget with the hem of his shirt. “John --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want you to kiss me because you feel like there’s nobody left,” he says and Paul immediately shakes his head, muuters a stammered: “that’s not…” but then stops short because he doesn’t actually know what it isn’t, never mind what it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John can’t believe how quickly all that work and peace have left him. He feels riddled with anxiety and insecurity. He can’t believe he’s stopping this, he can’t believe he’s had Paul kiss him and he doesn’t want it. But he just feels so sick with dread: Paul hadn’t chosen him for a reason; he hadn’t chosen him and then he’d been left alone. It makes sense to come back for what’s left and it makes him feel pathetic: that he’s just waited here for Paul to come back to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what it is between us, John,” Paul admits. “I never have,” he adds, shaking his head at the enormity of it all. “It </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> a rebound,” he says, fervent and urgent, just as much for himself as it is for John. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t just stop loving you, Paul,” John tells him, and he sees Paul deflate slightly in on himself. He hates that his loving someone can make them feel so guilty. “So, I don’t think we should kiss until you know what it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul sighs heavily: his guilt turns into something else, something John doesn’t recognize, but he nods. He’s finally able to look up at John, and he nods, offers a sad reassuring smile. “Okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They go back to their safe haven of quietness and John closes his eyes to help his mind will away all that anxiety. Then, Paul’s voice breaks his focus: “She left because she caught me with someone else.” John inhales deeply, hates to think that that makes sense, but he has. “She came home earlier than I was expecting her to, and…” He shakes his head at himself, can’t believe it’s something that he’s done, and so recently too. “I had a girl in bed.” John winces at it. Can see it all: Miss Jane Asher, going angry the way John always suspected she might be able to. Emotionally intelligent enough to know what she does and doesn’t deserve, to know what Paul does and doesn’t deserve, too. And she knows he doesn’t deserve a fight from her, so she just leaves him. Leaves him and means to never speak to him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think you’ll ever hear from her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Paul answers honestly, and John thinks he’s probably right. “And she’d be right to never speak to me again.” He starts to trace lines in the dirt in front of him and all John can do is just watch him. “She was just an artist. She loved what she did. She loved film. I expected her to stop when I couldn’t even be faithful to her. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> would have stopped music for her. She never would have asked me to. Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> that?” John sighs heavily and he thinks of Cyn: her painting back in Liverpool. He’d never told her to stop in so many words, but he’d still made her, by being withdrawn, by being selfish and not present. Julian had become a sort of fulfillment for her, John knew that, but she must have missed painting. It makes him feel sick: the sort of man he’s been. So wrapped up in his own neuroses to realize that there were people around him who were just as complex. He shakes his head, shakes his head at them both. “She’s made me better by leaving, she knows she has, but she still doesn’t believe I deserve a second chance, and I don’t.” John sighs heavily, and can’t stop thinking of Cynthia, giving him chance after chance after chance, until he left her. “Why should she hope that I’ve learned my lesson?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you?” John asks, just to get out of his own head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll never hurt anyone for anything less than love,” Paul absolves. “I didn’t love the girl I was with. Maybe that might have been different. Maybe she’d be leaving me for something she could understand. She’d still have left me, but at least she’d be doing it for something important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you didn’t love anybody else,” John says, and Paul looks at him as though that weren’t true, and he realizes that Paul was telling the truth when he’d said that Jane didn’t know about him, but he looks as though he wishes she had. Then, this would all be for something important. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My heart wasn’t in it,” Paul says instead; it’s tip-toeing around what he really means, before John sees him decide to dive right into it. That sort of stark honesty is what he’s come to India for, anyway. “Sometimes, I think it must still be at that river in Paris,” he says, and John feels his chest go tight. He holds remarkably still, just like he had with that little magpie, like if he moved an inch, he’d scare it away. “Or, maybe in Liverpool with my mother,” he amends. “Or Wales, with Brian,” and that gives John a reason to exhale everything out of his lungs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul’s heart is with all the things he’s lost; John realizes that the loss of the French versions of themselves feels as painful and tangible to Paul as it had to John. It felt like the loss of a real person; a loss that deserved time and grief to heal from. And Paul hadn’t even known that that French version of himself existed, not until John showed it to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I shouldn’t have said anything,” John says. “About wishing we’d stayed in France when we were kids.” Paul looks up at him, his eyes wide and sad, like he’s being made to lose himself all over again. “There are these other versions of myself that I like more than what I’ve been left with, and sometimes, I think I forget that those versions aren’t real.” Paul swallows hard, but he nods, knowing full-well he’s mourning the loss of something that doesn’t exist. “I’ll never be that boy with both parents. I’ll never be a painter with Stuart. Those things were just never meant to be for me.” It makes Paul sad to hear, John knows it, but now that he’s here, he has to say it all. “I can’t be any of those other versions, and I never should have let myself think I could be. Or, that you could be too. It pulls you out of everything important. It pulls you out of this version of you, right here, right now. It isn’t healthy,” John decides. “And I’ve forced it on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Besides,” John cuts him off, waving a hand at him: he isn’t finished. “It isn’t even about being these other versions, you know? I don’t have to be them to stand for what they stand for. That version of me in France that asked you to stay there with me just wants to make art and be in love with everything.” Paul smiles sadly; it’s all he wants too. “I can do that right here. So can you.” Paul nods, then keeps his eyes locked on John as he tells him: “Your heart isn’t in France, Paul. It’s right here. You’ll always carry it. You’ll always get to decide what you do with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul swallows hard. John thinks it must be unconscious, but he watches Paul lay his palm flat down against his own chest, as though he’s making sure that that’s all true. “There’s a version of myself that knows what he wants to do with it,” he whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, and asks: “What’s he telling you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be afraid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you are,” he observes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, manages a horrible, “yes,” that makes John wish he hadn’t asked that they don’t kiss one another. It’s what Paul wants; whether it’s because he’s lonely, or if he really is nearing loving John the way John would like him to. Whatever the reason, John wants to give Paul what he wants, but he’s afraid that if he does it, he won’t stop until Paul takes everything. And they can’t both be afraid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, John thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>be brave, be brave, be brave,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he reaches his hand out to touch Paul’s, and he tells him what everyone has always seemed to have been trying to tell him: “It’ll pass.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John doesn’t know how he does it, but Mal finds him the exact brand of art pencils he’d asked for. They’d been tough to find, even in Liverpool. The sketch pad he’s gotten is simple, it reminds John of the one that Stuart had, except it isn’t busting at the seams yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In their ashram, Cynthia is folding some of her newly-clean laundry. John sets the sketch pad and pencils down on the bed next to one of the piles of clothes. Cyn pauses, keeps her eyes down on them, then, allows herself to look up at John. Her eyes are narrowed and, not for the first time, John hates what he’s conditioned her to be suspicious of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s this?” she asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had Mal pick up a few things for you,” he explains. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She drops the shirt in her hands, unfolded, and reaches for the sketch pad. She opens it and leafs through the empty pages. Next, she goes for the pencils, and they feel nostalgic and familiar in her hands. John sees the feeling bring her back to something. She chews on the inside of her cheek and manages to tell him: “I haven’t drawn anything in years,” and it makes his chest hurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, tries to remember to tell himself that this is an apology-tour, not a guilt-trip. It isn’t about him. “I thought you might like to pick it back up again,” he offers, and her eyes shoot up to his. She’s crying, or rather, desperately trying to not. He reaches out for her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “We’ve got a little time while we’re here, I just thought…” Then, he stops himself short. None of this matters. None of this is what this is actually about, so he starts fresh. He tells her: “You never should have felt like you had to stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says, before she can tell him it’s alright, because it isn’t. “I shouldn’t have made you choose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he pokes back. “By not being there, by not helping. You’re a great mother, but you’re more than that too. You’re a better artist than me,” he tells her, and it makes her cheeks go red. “It isn’t fair that you had to stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John can tell that she doesn’t know what to say. What is there to say? There were forces larger than either of them that made women feel like their lives stopped as soon as they were married. But they were forces that John perpetuated, </span>
  <em>
    <span>knowingly</span>
  </em>
  <span> perpetuated, and it had robbed her of something. No matter how much more she felt she gained by being a mother, by being a wife, it had still robbed her of something. And he’d made no moves to fill up that empty space that painting left behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t know what to say, so instead, she offers him a shy smile. “You remembered my brand,” she tells him, inspecting one of the pencils. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the posh brand, isn’t it?” he tells her, nudging her playfully. She laughs and gives him a proper shove, then, without thinking, she latches onto his arm and pulls him close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you’re so working class,” she mumbles into his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, then allows himself one last moment of intimacy. He kisses the top of her head, and whispers: “I’m sorry,” into her hair. He knows that she feels it somewhere deep down inside of her, feels it in her mind, her heart, her soul, everywhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t think it should be enough, but she tells him: “I love it,” after she pulls away and gives the sketch book another inspection. “I love it,” she says again, and she means that </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s alright</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> enough; that she loves this version of herself, even though getting here had been hard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees ideas pouring through her, and he can’t wait to see what she’s able to create out of what he’s given her. He wants to be that supplier for the rest of his life. That supporter of everything, until she felt so protected and fulfilled that she hardly even had to think about it anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paul must be smoother than John ever gave him credit for. He’s somehow snuck in most of his pot stash, or at least, a travel-sized version. It’s been weeks since John’s smoked anything other than tobacco and he hadn’t realized how much he’d been craving some weed. He figures it can’t do any harm, not really. It’s always just made him feel quiet, even when it made him slightly paranoid. It wasn’t like the acid, in that it made him feel like he was anyone other than himself. It just made him relaxed, a little too much sometimes, maybe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul had been so unsure in even bringing it up; the way his cheeks went a little red and he kept his voice low, like he could deny ever bringing it up at all if John didn’t go for it. He’d been so keen on it, to smoke with John, that John could never say no to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weed hits them as it usually does, meaning it makes John lie down and it makes Paul pick up his guitar. He immediately starts strumming something, then that falls away into a familiar picking style. It takes a moment, but then John’s back with Donovan, learning, feeling Paul listening to him play, picking it all up. John smiles to himself. He’d been right all along: Paul had wanted to learn it, he’d just learn by ear instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John props himself up on one elbow and peers down at Paul on the floor. Paul’s so into the music that he hasn’t even noticed that John’s moved. He looks so serene, so relaxed, that John suddenly remembers him the way he had that evening after they’d meditated together: a god of some kind, in control of the music and nature around him. He suddenly realizes how one with the universe Paul has always been: this grounding force, something natural and strong, ancient and exciting. Even indoors, John sees him for what he is: a child of nature. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul hums, building himself up to the best part of the song as he goes. There’s a pause, then John gives the words to him: “Mother Nature’s son,” he half-sings, and it gives Paul pause. He glances up at John like he’s just given him all the answers. He repeats the few chords leading up to that moment and uses John’s words: mother nature’s son, and it fits. It feels right in his throat, so he nods, says: “I like that,” then scrambles up to write it all down on a scrap piece of paper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John lays himself back down up on the pillows. He can start to feel the mattress melting around him, and he realizes that he must have overdone it. There are two burnt-out joints in the ashtray: one that he’s smoked and one that Paul has. That’s too much. After weeks of nothing, that’s too much. He must get too quiet because after Paul’s got everything written down, he climbs into bed next to John and John’s glad for it: he’s glad for the added weight of a body next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul glances at John and it’s enough to make John glance back. Slowly, John sees Paul’s mouth smirk upward into a smile. John doesn’t know why, but he finds himself smiling back. Then, Paul covers his mouth with one hand and says, “oh, no,” before he dissolves into a fit of giggles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” John asks him, laughing now too, just at the sound of Paul laughing. Paul can’t stop long enough to give him an answer, so John demands: “What did I do?” barely able to hold it together now himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul shakes his head. “Nothing,” he manages. “You just looked so frightened,” he says, and it just makes John laugh harder. He hasn’t been scared of drugs, or the adverse effects on his body in a long time, he imagines he’d laugh at himself too. “I’m sorry,” Paul says, wiping at a tear in his eye. “I’m not laughing at you, I just. I don’t know why,” he tries to explain, as if any of it makes sense. “I think my tolerance has gone way down,” Paul says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I can move,” John says in agreement and it makes Paul laugh so hard that he cries. John doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s being stone-serious. He realizes it’ll be the fourth night in a row he’s spent in Paul’s ashram if he lets himself fall asleep here. So, he tries to sit up, but the world doesn’t move with him. It makes him feel a little nauseous. “Whoa,” John mumbles, laying his head in his hands to steady himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s up!” Paul observes playfully. “He can move after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I’m gonna green out, Paul,” John tells him, and that makes Paul sit up. He must see the way he’s gone pale too, because then, John feels Paul’s hand at the small of his back. He hears him mutter, “oh, shit,” then he’s off the bed, rummaging around the ashram until there’s a cup of water shoved into John’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drink something, Johnny,” he tells him. “Finish it, and then we’ll just lie down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t stay here,” John tells him. “I haven’t got anything to sleep in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll sleep in something of mine,” Paul decides for him. John means to grumble something back, but he takes a sip of water instead and can’t stop until he downs the entire glass. He catches Paul smirking at him. “I’m not taking you back to Cyn like this,” Paul says. “She’ll never let us hear the end of it.” John manages a laugh because he knows Paul’s right; they’re too old to be doing this shit. “Here,” he says, handing John one of his t-shirts. “We’ll just sleep this off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods and he does as he’s told; he pulls his own shirt up over his head and slips into Paul’s. He’s always liked it when Paul wears his clothes, but he’s never realized how much he likes to wear Paul’s. Where they used to be a little more snug, now they hang off his shoulders a bit more. It makes him feel small, like he’s something that Paul will want to look after. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John lays himself back down as Paul goes about shutting off all the lights they’ve left on. All that’s left to illuminate them by the time Paul makes it back to bed is the moonlight. John watches Paul’s silhouette as he dresses himself in something lighter to sleep in. He climbs into bed next to John and they each lay down on their sides, facing one another. It reminds John of their schoolboy days. Paul breaks into a grin first, and John follows suit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s the shirt?” Paul asks him, reaching out to tug it tighter against his collarbone. “Comfy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good, yeah,” John says, looking down at Paul’s hand just as Paul means to pull away. It means that the back of Paul’s fingers brush up against John’s lips. They both decide to pretend they haven’t noticed. “I think I might be stealing it,” John adds. “It’s quite soft.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna steal me best t-shirt?” Paul asks, feigning indignance. “You’re leaving me in quite a lurch here, Lennon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles and tells him: “Write a number one and you can buy all the t-shirts you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul rolls his eyes then turns onto his back. Taking a deep breath, he shuts his eyes and lets himself relax. “You think you’ll be able to sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm,” John mumbles into the pillow. “It feels better when I’m lying down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet,” Paul answers without opening his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John can feel the mattress melting around him, except it feels warm and good now. He feels the tension leaving him; the darkness and sleep start to take over. He sighs heavily and rolls onto his opposite side, his back to Paul. He feels Paul do the same. It doesn’t matter, all he needs is the weight of a body sleeping in a bed next to him to help him drift off. That’s always been true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels Paul’s foot jut out towards him, knocking their ankles together, and then just resting there. Without a word, Paul tethers himself to John. John assumes this helps Paul sleep easier too, so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t move away. He quite likes being the thing Paul can tie himself down to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s stupid, but John feels like he’s in trouble as he makes his way back to the ashram he’s sharing with Cyn the following morning. He thinks she must still be able to smell the pot on him. But again, it’s stupid, she’s never cared about him smoking, why should that change now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps inside and she hardly even looks up at him. She offers him a tight smile, but she’s too engrossed in the letter on her lap to do much more, so John mumbles a sweet, “good morning,” then changes into some new clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got another letter,” Cyn suddenly tells him. “I picked it up this morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he mutters, stepping towards the desk where she’s left it. “Who from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack,” she says stoically, and he feels them both pause. He and Jack have been writing back and forth since the beginning, and John can tell she’s been wanting to ask all along. He hasn’t exactly been trying to hide it, but there was something special about having a friend outside of this Beatle circle. It felt different and precious and fun. And… well, Jack had seen everything, he felt like there was nothing he couldn’t say to him, especially through letters. It felt quite freeing, quite in tune with the work they’re doing here anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John realizes he hasn’t told Paul that he and Jack have been writing either. He suddenly wonders how that might look, but it doesn’t make him want to confess to it any sooner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John picks up the letter; he feels Cyn watching him, so he doesn’t immediately tear into it. She must think it feels private for different reasons, because John thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>go on, ask me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and she reads his mind: “You two have been writing quite a lot,” she begins with. John takes a deep breath and waits. “Are the two of you working something out?” she asks, and she means something romantic, but John just thinks of Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re just friends,” he tells her, then shrugs, because she looks like she thinks he ought to be sad about that. “We always knew that was what we wanted,” he tells her honestly, so she nods. Before she can ask him anything else, he decides to turn it on her. He nods towards the letter in her lap and asks: “That the boyfriend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She goes crimson on the bed. She folds it up and tucks it away from John’s prying eyes. It makes him smile, so he sits down on the edge of the mattress next to her. “And if it is?” she asks him when he raises her eyebrows at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, I’d have reason to believe it was getting quite serious,” he says, shrugging, not letting his smile falter for a second. She shakes her head, but he can tell that’s a lie. “It’s been, what? At least three months now,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Four,” she corrects, and it makes him realize that means she’d been with this bloke a full month before she ever told him that night of the Apple party in December. “I thought the whole long-distance thing would be hard, but it’s felt quite good,” she tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad,” he answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know how I said I wanted you to meet him?” she asks, and John does, so he nods. “I reckon it’ll be about right to do that once we get back,” she says kindly and it suddenly makes him nervous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” he mutters, nodding. He suddenly wonders when he’ll ever have someone important enough for her to meet and love too. It makes it all real: the divorce, the new lives. She’s actually doing what he’d hoped she’d do, but something about it still hurts. He doesn’t want it to, but it does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think it’s too soon,” she says, and she doesn’t even say it as though it’s a question, so John shakes his head at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no,” he immediately pokes back. “It isn’t that, I just…” He shakes it off: the way this hurts, he shakes it off. He’s asked her to shake off far worse. “I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting it. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to meet him,” he assures her, and he sees the way that makes her smile. “I think it’s good -- I think it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>great</span>
  </em>
  <span>, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles at him graciously, then her eyes dart down to the mattress between them. She takes a deep breath and John knows she’s about to say something heavy, something truthful that will hit him between the eyes. “You know,” she starts. “It’s a special circumstance with you and Paul. You know,” she stammers, and John realizes this is as hard for her to say as it is for him to hear. “Usually, when something happens between two people, you’re able to walk away. You haven’t been able to do that,” she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t want to walk away,” he mumbles. The way his voice has gone sad makes her shift a little closer to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I know,” she mutters, then she reaches out and takes John’s hand. “I’m just asking…” She waits for John to look up at her, and when their eyes meet, he finds he can’t look away. “Do you think you’d be with Jack if you weren’t seeing Paul every day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hates how immediately his gut tells him </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It makes him question what he’s doing, what this whole thing is about. He suddenly sees exactly where the man that had left Paul at that premiere had ended up. In a white painting studio, next to Jack. And it isn’t a bad life, either. Songs come on the radio that make him think of Paul, but he’s still happy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re just friends,” he says again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you are,” she tells him gently. “But do you think you want that because you think that if you just wait long enough, something will happen with Paul?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks he ought to get defensive; he thinks he ought to shut this down with anger and indifference, and he realizes that’s some old part of him coming back, and he hates how quickly it had. He hates that, after all the work he’s done, that version of himself, those thoughts, could always reappear at any time. As if out of spite, John decides to tell her the truth: “Yes,” he tells her, and her shoulders fall slightly, she looks so sorry for him that it makes him feel a little hot under the collar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d just hate to see you wait, and…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And him pull away,” she says, and it hits him square in the chest. He feels her words viscerally, like they’re some tangible thing that can tear him apart. He realizes that there’s only been one ending for him. Paul was afraid, but he would overcome it and he would give John those three words, weighted the right way: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But he suddenly realizes that there’s always a second option: Paul could just stay afraid. Or, he could realize that there really wasn’t anything to be afraid of to begin with, and… Where would that leave him? Without Paul, without Jack, without anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head at how empty that makes him feel and says: “You’re making me feel crazy,” he tells her, and he feels her shift even closer, cling to his hand even tighter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no,” she tries to soothe. “I’m not trying to --...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think there’s something real happening between us,” he tells her, and he means Paul, so she nods. “And now, I --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Cyn tells him. “I just love you, and I worry about you, I didn’t mean to --... If you think there’s something, then you know you best,” she says, but it doesn’t make him feel better. “And I think you know him best too. I’m sorry. I just love you,” she says again, hanging her head at the truth of it. At how much she loves him, while knowing she was still leaving him alone. “I want you to be happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, then: “If he says no, he says no,” he tells her. “I just feel like I have to follow this.” He sighs, because he realizes he’s said this before. And he suddenly wonders how many more times he’ll say it. If Paul turned him down again, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’d give him another chance. It would just be </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, forever. Cyn nods, but he can tell she’s wondering the same thing: </span>
  <em>
    <span>how long can this go on for?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He doesn’t have an answer for her, so instead, he asks: “Will you come to lunch with us? To make sure I’m not just seeing things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cyn nods, but she sees him the way she’d seen him before he met Mary. He knows he sees her that way, because he feels that way too. He feels paranoid and self-loathing and undeserving, and he hates it. How had he ever lived this way for so long? It makes his chest hurt, it makes his hands shake, and he suddenly doesn’t want Paul or Jack, or anybody but Brian. He wants to go back to something that could have been so simple for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She must sense that his head’s going somewhere it shouldn’t, because she gently holds both cheeks in her hands and tugs him towards her, so she can place a kiss to his forehead, and he finds it actually does something. She kisses him and it makes something go away, so he shuts his eyes to it, tries to make his whole body feel the way her lips have made his mind feel. He hears her tell him: “You’re not just seeing things,” and he believes her. With his eyes closed, he believes her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s quieter than he ought to be while they eat with one another. He can feel it. So, he’s glad when George and Ringo notice them all eating together and join them too. It makes him feel like he can disappear without anybody noticing. But they do, he knows they do, because Paul won’t stop turning to him, asking him directly what he thinks about whatever they’re talking about, he won’t stop reaching out and touching the front of John’s shirt, his shoulder, his arms, making sure that he still knows he’s here, that he’s breathing next to these people who love him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Paul finally says quietly, when George and Rich get tangled into some conversation together. He leans towards John, keeps his voice low, and underneath the table, John feels Paul reach out and take his hand. “Y’alright, love?” John looks up at him, and feels stronger for it. Paul looks right back at him and he doesn’t look afraid. John realizes that Paul’s passing some of that strength to him. So, he nods, forces himself to speak, because he wants Paul to see that he’s made him taller. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he tells him. “Sorry, I was getting in my head about something,” he says, and Paul nods, like he understands, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> he understands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure?” Paul asks, leaning even closer, so John nods again, even offers him a smile that’s small, but still genuine. Made that way by how much Paul cares to know. He feels some new part of himself come back: that new part he’s spent so many months building and he likes the person this part makes him so much more than who he’d allowed himself to be for so long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re getting a kick out of it, aren’t you, Paul?” George suddenly asks across the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul leans away, but John doesn’t feel him let go of his hand. “Out of what, mate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This whole thing,” George explains flippantly. “Meditation, like.” Paul offers a wry shrug, so George tacks on. “You were a right mess when you got here,” and that makes Paul falter. “But you think it’s been helping?” Paul shrugs again, but this time it’s a little more unsure. He glances to John uneasily and it makes John wonder if any of this has ever been about meditation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel like I’m starting something over,” Paul allows, and John feels Cynthia’s eyes suddenly on him. It’s that rebuild she’s been so excited about. She suddenly sees that it means something to Paul too. Rebuilding something with John next to him means something. “I think there’s something really good in that,” he adds, then he looks at John and doesn’t seem to care who can see them, so John doesn’t either. Because he knows Cyn is seeing exactly what he’d hoped she would: something real was happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re dragged off to another afternoon lesson before Cyn can talk to him about it, but she smiles at him so sweetly once they’re both back in the ashram and she sees him collecting another shirt and some pants to sleep in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you spending the night with Paul again?” she asks, going for casual, but she seems quite excited by the prospect. It makes John nervous in a good way, in a way that tickles him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that alright?” he asks her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it is,” she tells him. She smiles, then adds: “You should just take a bag,” she supplies. “So you don’t have to keep coming back here for the things you need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think that’s a little forward?” he asks her, starting to grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been there for three days now, John,” she tells him, grinning right back. “I think the concept of forwardness might be lost on you two.” He doesn’t know why, but that makes him blush, and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>catches him</span>
  </em>
  <span> for it. Her smile grows and she shuffles forward on the bed. “What do the two of you even do with all that time together?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never you mind, Miss Powell,” he tells her, tugging out another shirt for himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you get tired of one another?” she asks playfully, knowing full-well that that isn’t possible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No more tired than I do spending time alone with me thoughts,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re much more difficult company,” she allows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheeky,” he mutters back, then finds himself stepping towards the bed. “You think I should, though? Bring a bag?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ,” she says with a laugh. “I’ve never seen you act like such a schoolboy,” she tells him, and he feels his cheeks go hot with it. “And I met you when you were a schoolboy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, itches at the back of his neck uneasily. “Well, I don’t want to do the wrong thing, do I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t do the wrong thing,” she assures. “It’s Paul, there is no wrong thing.” He starts to nod, then scans the room for a duffel bag. He misses the way she goes a bit more serious in front of him. “I saw it,” she tells him, and it makes him hold his breath. “The thing between you, I saw it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He exhales heavily, feeling weak and warm with validation. He starts to nod, means to say that’s good, but then she has another question for him: “Do you reckon it’s always been Paul?” He goes stiff as a board. “It’s alright if you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” he tells her, clinging desperately to that word </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘always’</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Has he felt this way since they met each other in Woolton, or did it happen day-after-day until he was too far gone to ever come back from? He supposes he does know, but he’d rather hold that in on himself. “It has been for a while,” he allows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think this all means?” she asks him. “What happens if you rebuild this into something like what we had?” she adds, and it makes John feel like he can’t breathe. She means something powerful enough to be sanctified with marriage. She means something powerful enough that they won’t be able to hide it from the prying eyes of fans and journalists. It doesn’t feel like a fair question; he doesn’t know why she’s asking it. But when he looks at her, he sees her eyes are wide with sadness and sympathy. She’s only asking because she cares, because she doesn’t want to see either of them get hurt in a world that would still be unfair to them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People will stop caring about us eventually,” he says, because he has to hope that’s true. “They’ll leave us alone and maybe we can feel normal and love each other properly.” It’s a naively hopeful answer, but Cyn still smiles at him and nods, because it’s still sweet in its naivety. It’s a homely and content future for them both, something soft, that she thinks they both must deserve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe you had it right with that island in Greece,” she tells him with a smile, so he smiles back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not all daft ideas,” he says and she has to allow that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He piles his clothes into a bag half-full and takes it back with him to Paul’s. He tries to not think too much about what he’s doing, about what what he’s doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>implies</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but as he gets closer to Paul’s, he can’t help but feel a little nervous. He steps inside and is glad for it when Paul doesn’t even look up from whatever he’s writing at the desk. He takes a deep breath and sets it down on what’s become his side of the room and the thump is enough for Paul to look up at him. John thinks it makes his heart stop. He keeps his eyes low as he takes out his glasses case from the bag and sets it down on the bedside table as if it’s always been his. He steals a glance at Paul and finds him smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They lock eyes with one another for a moment before Paul glances down at John’s bag at his feet. That small smile grows into a playful smirk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” John blusters. He lifts the bag slightly off the ground for emphasis. “Beats trekking halfway across the camp whenever I need to change my socks,” he says, which makes Paul laugh. “Besides,” he adds. “Not like you were ever offering to spend the night at mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many days have you packed for?” Paul asks, ignoring that accusation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About three,” John guesses and he goes warm at the way that  makes Paul smile. He suddenly wishes he’d packed for more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul stands and opens up one of the drawers in his wardrobe. He looks over his shoulder at John, then raises his eyebrows. “I’ve got some room up here,” he tells him, gesturing to one half of the drawer. It feels so squarely intimate that John can’t help but do it. He joins Paul at the wardrobe, then starts to pile a few of the shirts inside. They fit; John hates how much they fit together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul goes back to his work at the desk, then he starts to fold up a piece of paper and stuff it into an envelope. He holds it up and glances at John. “I’ve got to send this out to Mikey. Will you come with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods before he can articulate how much he needs a good walk, some fresh air, to distract himself from how much he wants this sort of thing -- this shared space -- to be a reality back in England. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul slips his letter to his brother in the mail bin, then finds there’s a letter there waiting for him too. It’s from Robert Fraser. Then he glances at the pile of post underneath it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like you’ve got one too,” he tells John. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John immediately leafs through the pile of letters. He’s got </span>
  <em>
    <span>three</span>
  </em>
  <span>. One from Julian, another from Shotton. He’s expecting one from Mimi too, but she must not have gotten around to it yet, because the third is from Robert’s Jack. He feels Paul glance at it and catch the return address before John can tuck it behind the others. John feels his heart stop behind his rib cage. And Paul doesn’t let him get away with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You two are still chatting, then?” he asks. He means to sound casual, but there’s something urgent in his words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bit, yeah,” John allows, and he sees Paul nod, something like dignified resignation clouding over him. “It’s not anything serious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows hard, thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>not yet anyway. Not until you’ve told me no for good.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re just friends,” John tells him. Paul nods, but he doesn’t seem wholly convinced. He keeps quiet as they make their back towards Paul’s ashram, until John can’t take it anymore. He says: “I think it’s important to have queer friends,” he says, and it pulls Paul out of his thoughts quickly. “Ones you don’t shag, you know?” Paul doesn’t seem to react, doesn’t nod, so John stammers forward: “It makes things feel easier. When there are people like you around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would be alright if you wanted to shag him,” Paul offers, and he’s so off-base that John just shakes his head at him. He suddenly sees what insecurity looks like on a person, the way it’s always looked on himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to,” he says, but he really means that he doesn’t want to shag anyone who isn’t Paul. Not yet, anyway. There was still time between them. “That’s not what I’m saying…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, seeming to sense that he’s got it all wrong. He looks as though he wants to start over, so he keeps his voice gentle and even. “That makes sense,” he tells John. “To want to be with people like you. It’s like with anything, really,” he says, even though he knows it’s different than hanging out with boys who like the same rock groups as you. “You know,” he suddenly observes with a chuckle. “I suppose I’ve always been friends with queer blokes.” John sets his jaw and just listens; he’s left wondering what that might mean. Evidently, so is Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They step inside the ashram, and Paul shrugs. He looks more comfortable to be having this conversation in private. “You know, it was John Baldry and Brian in Liverpool,” he says. “And you, I suppose.” He shrugs, then swallows hard. “And now Bob in London.” He pauses, then smiles fondly. “And still you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s it all mean?” John asks laconically, allowing this to spiral into a joke if Paul would like it to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul chuckles again, seems to come to an answer, but doesn’t put any words to it. Instead, he sits himself down on the bed and tears into the letter from Robert Fraser. So John does the same with his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he opens up Jack’s letter, a photograph lands in his lap. There’s a message scrawled on the back: </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s more than in the pictures, you wanker</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then John turns it over and finds Jack and his sister from all his portraits looking back at him. They’re at the base of the Eiffel Tower; it’s a place John knows intimately. They’re both smiling broadly at him, and they make him feel that: </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s more than in the pictures</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And they’re right. Paris is </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The letter itself isn’t much; there’s a quick sketch of the piece that Jack’s working on with a brief description, along with a few recommendations for supplies that John had asked about for Cynthia. It isn’t much, and John hadn’t even been expecting it: Jack’s double-written him now, too quick on the draw for John to have even replied to his last one. But the real reason for it suddenly makes John smile: he’d been happy in Paris and wanted John to know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Love looks good on him, John decides. Love looks good on everyone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, at the bottom, there’s a friendly command: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve shown what being happy in Paris looks like. Show me what being happy in Rishikesh looks like</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances over the top of the letter at Paul; he’s up on the bed, smiling down at his letter from Bob. He realizes how easy that is. He knows exactly what being happy in Rishikesh looks like. He clears his throat, which makes Paul look at him. “Do you mind if we go out and take a photo?” he asks; it makes Paul smile wider. “Jack wants to see what the camp looks like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It gives Paul pause, but he must see that, whatever this is, John is choosing to do it with him, and not anybody else, because he smiles and starts to nod. “Sure,” he mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John stands, so Paul does too. John snatches Paul’s polaroid camera off the desk and leads him outside. He realizes he’s whistling Paul’s new tune in his head: </span>
  <em>
    <span>mother nature’s son</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it brings him back to that tucked-away place where they’d meditated together, where they’d been visited by that magpie. The sun is shining the way it had been then: bouncing gold off the running water not far off behind them. It makes John think of the way the light might have bounced off the Mersey if he’d really cared to look. It makes him think of the Seine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like this spot,” Paul tells him, and it makes something burst behind his chest. He nods, and he sees the same thing happen to Paul. They’re here, together, and there’s something real between them. John lifts the camera because he thinks he wants to capture it -- if it were possible -- he wants to capture the thing between them. Immortalize it on film the way they had been able to do so with music. Commit it to every memory possible and never lose it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t sure when it’s happened, but when he tugs Paul closer to him so they’ll fit into the frame, he realizes he’s holding Paul’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hits the shutter before he even thinks he’s ready. It happens so fast, even though he knows he’s the one in control. He doesn’t think he’s even looking at the lens, but he reckons Paul isn’t either because he can’t remember a moment where they took their eyes off of one another. The photograph develops in his hand, but John almost forgets about it, because he’s got the real thing in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That felt like a good one,” Paul tells him, and John wonders if it would ever be possible to capture what it is that exists between them. Did it transcend that sort of thing? Was it something that they could actually hold, or would they just have to share it and feel it and </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> it wasn’t going anywhere. John wants to cling to it for dear life. He thinks he should be more like Paul: he thinks he should tether himself to this between them and never let go. He thinks he should cling onto it for dear life, keeping it safe, through thick and thin, through fame and fortune, through life and death. John thinks he must have been born with this thing inside of him. He’d just needed Paul to show him what it was. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ringo has him over for tea and tells him that he and Mo are gonna head back to England. Something sinks like a stone in John’s stomach. It feels like an ending coming up to meet him when he isn’t ready for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just miss the kids,” Ringo admits. “And the food’s been rough,” he says with a chuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles back, because he can tell he doesn’t want to look as though he’s abandoning them. “Should we all get out of here, then?” John asks. “Travel together like proper Beatles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rich laughs and shakes his head. “Not if you’d like to stay,” he says and John feels warm with relief. He nods, so Rich presses on: “I think this place has been good for you three. You’ve all seemed quite happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you?” John asks, suddenly feeling self-centered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rich shrugs, then lights himself up a cigarette. It makes John itch for one himself. “It hasn’t been harmful, or anything. I just think maybe I’ve found some of these answers in other things, you know?” he says, and John nods again, because he actually does know. He suddenly remembers Rich helping him move into the new flat, he remembers him telling John that the most help he’d had had come from a doctor picking into his mind. The same was true for John -- John hadn’t told him that yet. He suddenly wants to. “I don’t need to find the meaning of life if I have to miss my kids to do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” John mutters, because he knows </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be true. He remembers listening to Julian’s voice on the phone and always waking up lighter for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I kept thinking I’d learned this stuff somewhere before, anyway,” he continues, and John holds his breath. “All the calming things and that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John agrees. “You know, I er --...” Rich raises his eyes to John, watches him closely, as if he knows what John’s about to tell him. “I started seeing someone like you said you thought I should.” Rich raises his eyebrows, and John realizes he doesn’t want to lie. “Well, I’d already been seeing someone, actually. When you told me about you and Mo.” He shakes his head at himself. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you then. I hadn’t told anybody and… I dunno…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rich just shrugs again, takes a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s alright,” he says. “It’s a weird thing to talk about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But anyway,” John tells him, because it feels too vulnerable to say thank you. “I just mean, I know what you’re saying. That you’ve learned all this stuff before. I feel that way too. It’s been really helpful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo smiles, then crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m glad,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I reckon I’ll never stop going,” John confesses. “It’s made me a better person. I don’t know if I’ll ever want to stop that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been good for you,” Rich agrees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just feel ready to be a person,” John says and it makes Ringo laugh, so John laughs too. “I’m ready to be a person for Cyn and Jools, and -- I dunno -- whoever I fall in love with next,” he says, and that brings Ringo’s eyes back up to him. They lock for a moment, both thinking what neither of them want to say: it’s about Paul. So much of this is about Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ringo inhales deeply, then looks out across the camp and it makes John wonder why none of them can look at one another directly when they’re about to say something important. “You’ve been quiet about it, so I didn’t really know what to say, but.” He glances back at John and just looks so sorry. “Paul told me about what happened in Paris.” John feels himself blanche. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Christ,” he hears himself mutter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was really torn up about it,” Rich tells him. “Still is, probably.” He shrugs, and then tries to say this with so much conviction that John won’t have any choice but to believe him: “He’s had so much going on in his head, but I hope you didn’t ever think he didn’t love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels his chest go tight. Could everybody see the thing between them? Even when it had been unrequited. Then, John tries to dig deeper. He tries to go beyond feeling embarrassed, he tries to remember that he’d known all along that Paul loved him, in his own way, Paul loved him. Even as he told John ‘no’ at that premiere, he’d loved him. That had been true then, and felt even more true now. It was the thing that John knew he could cling to, forever. It would be enough, even if it ended up as a crumb. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s something between you two,” Rich says, because that feels just as true too. “And I think all that’s happened is he’s been the last person to realize it.” John feels himself exhale because he thinks Rich can somehow see inside that thing between him and Paul, and understand it better than either of them could. And Rich hadn’t said Paul didn’t see the thing between them, he’d said he’d been the last to notice it -- he’d be the last to name it, but when it had a name, did it matter who brought it to light?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think he’s realized it now?” John asks, quiet but firm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you?” Ringo asks, and John just feels it all slot back into place. It was all that mattered. All that would ever matter was that he and Paul had found one another, that they’d both seen that happen. It didn’t matter if Rich could see it, or if Cyn could see it. He’d known -- something in his heart had told him to wait all those months ago. He’d waited because he’d known Paul would see it soon too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he manages, and Rich smiles at him reassuringly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you should stay,” he tells him. “Stay and see whatever this is through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods and notices the way that he’s breathing a little more fuller. He notices the way he’s able to fill his lungs right up; he notices the way he never feels like he’s drowning. And he knows that the remaking of his chest has got Paul’s hands all over it. He hopes to something, a god of some kind, that he’s been able to give Paul tangible proof of the way he’s feeling, physical evidence that he’s no longer afraid.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not messing about with that piano, are you?” John asks down the phone, a playfully stern tone to his voice. He feels Cyn swat at his arm next to him, but she’s laughing too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back in England, Julian roars with laughter. He tells John, “no,” just as John starts to hear a few keys being tinkered on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hear you playing Beethoven, you naughty boy!” he tells him and Julian laughs again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t Beethoven!” Julian defends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go on, who is it, then?” John pokes. “Is it Mozart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bach?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chopin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daddy, no!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it…” Then, John has to think of another name, he realizes he’s about to come up blank. “Oh, er… I need to brush up on my music history…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Schubert?” Paul supplies for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Schubert!” John repeats. “Thank you, Paul. Jools, is it Schubert?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The game is immediately forgotten: “Paul is there with you?” Julian asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yes,” John says immediately, glancing to Paul; he raises his eyebrows at him, intimating that the next question is meant for the both of them: “Would you like to speak to him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods enthusiastically just Julian shouts an excitable ‘yes’ down the line so loudly that John has to pull the receiver away from his ear. He hands the telephone off to Paul and watches him fold in on the receiver, holding it close and gentle, like it was something as likely to break as Julian himself. John can’t keep his eyes off of him. The way his cheeks have gone red, the way he can’t stop grinning. He looks proud as a parent when Julian begins to bang away at the piano keys again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels Cyn cling to his hand, so he looks over his shoulder at her, and finds she’s just as smitten by Paul as he is. Something feels complete with the three of them here, Julian somewhere near them too. It’s the sort of pure happiness that John wouldn’t have even thought to notice until someone pulled him back and let him have a real look. It’s the sort of happiness that feels like a holiday home in the summertime. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all goes right; John listens to Paul’s voice, imagines with it sounds like with Julian’s and thinks he can picture it in a home somewhere. Paul carefully hands the phone back to Cyn when he’s finished, even though he looks like he could gab away for hours. He sets his forehead against John’s as Cyn says her final goodbyes and then evidently gets passed back to her mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cor, I love that kid,” Paul mutters into the fabric of his shirt. Paul’s hands are shy, but they reach up to play with the hem of John’s shirt. There’s more he wants to say, John can feel it, but he keeps it all to himself. He lifts his eyes to look up at John and smiles. It’s the sort of smile that makes John wonder if this all feels as right to Paul as it does to him. He goes pink at the prospect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul pulls away as soon Cyn hangs up the phone. He smiles to her graciously because they can both see that Paul will be lighter for having listened to a kid’s voice over a telephone. </span>
</p><p><span>Paul reaches back out for the receiver.</span> <span>“You mind if I make another quick call?” he asks. John shakes his head. Cyn must too, because she starts to guide him back outside. </span></p><p>
  <span>Behind him, John hears Paul greet whoever’s on the other line: “Bob, hey, yeah. It’s me. Do you have a minute?” There’s a pause and John hates that they’re about to step outside, that there’s about to be a layer of wood between them,  because Paul sounds so open, so sincere, that John wants to hear the happy thing come out of his mouth. As the door shuts behind them, all John hears is: “I think you were right --” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the way back to the ashrams, Cyn clings to his elbow. Hearing Julian’s voice is always enough to set her straight. John loves the way it looks on her. She misses him terribly. She lays her head on his shoulder and sighs heavily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I need to see him,” she says, and John nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, me too,” he allows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glances up at him and he feels her hands trace down his forearm, until she can hold and play with his fingers. She suddenly seems shy and John doesn’t know why. “He loves Paul a lot,” she says and it makes John blush. She doesn’t add anything else to the observation, but the implication hangs heavy over them. John had felt like he was at home: with Paul and Cynthia on either side of him and Julian’s voice in his ear. He could live out the rest of his life that way and Cyn had seen that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he manages, because he knows that even though it’s a life for himself he can imagine, Paul hasn’t actually told him that it’s something he sees too. He can pretend Paul looks at him that way all he wants, but he realizes Paul still hasn’t said it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He realizes he hasn’t turned the page in his book for a while when Paul walks back into the ashram. He watches Paul over the top of the novel and thinks he looks lighter. There’s a constant smile on his face. John props up on his elbow, then glances at the clock to see that it’s been an hour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who was on the phone?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bob,” Paul tells him, pulling his shirt up over his head. There are shadows thrown across his body, the only light making it to him is the weak bedside lamp John still has on. He steps out of his trousers and then climbs into bed next to John. He keeps his eyes on him, that smile still there, and it makes John shut his book and set it down on the comforter next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is he?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul shrugs, then grins wider. “He’s good, yeah,” he mutters. He reaches out and tucks some loose hairs behind John’s ear before it can fall in front of his eyes. John holds his breath; Paul’s hands so close to his face always feels too intimate for him to handle. “He always gets me talking,” he says like it ought to be an apology. John watches Paul gazing at his eyes, then he traces a finger along the wire of his glasses. Then, he smiles wider: “Have you still got your hornrims?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John darts his eyes downward and shakes his head. Paul seems to deflate next to him. “I had to get a new prescription,” he says and it makes Paul laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you more blind than when we met?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels his cheeks go pink and hears himself laugh back. “A little bit, yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ,” Paul mutters, then he lays his head down on the pillow next to John. “I always liked your hornrims,” he says. “They always made me think of old times,” he adds, and John realizes Paul’s seeing him as though he were seeing him for the first time all over again. So, John gives him what he wants. He slips his glasses off his nose and sees the room go blurry around him. He glances back at Paul and the fuzziness makes him look so ethereal. He’s close enough that John can still see him in some good detail, but he’s still soft at the edges, and John thinks he knows him so well, his mind probably fills any of the blanks without him even realizing it. He swears he sees Paul inhale sharply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There,” he tells Paul. “How’s that for old times? That’s how you really met me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods and John sees him swallow down his nerves. He sees his eyes trace down from John’s and down to the pair of glasses in John’s hands. Then, slowly, Paul reaches out and takes the glasses from him. He sets them down on the bedside table and still reaches back out for John’s hand. He squeezesit then interlocks their fingers, watching closely, like it’s something he’ll never be allowed to do again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve always thought you have such beautiful hands,” he says, and it leaves John wondering if Paul wishes he would touch him with them. “I always noticed them,” he continues, holding one of John’s hands with both of his, like he’s afraid that he’ll lose John entirely if he lets go. “You know,” he says, quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper. “I noticed you before we met in Woolton.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes a deep breath and thinks, if Paul didn’t look so sincere, he’d think that none of this could be real. “You did?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, and in the weak golden light, John can see him blushing. “You even spoke to me,” Paul admits, and John can’t believe it. “I never forgot it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels something go tight in his chest. He knows he’s sold too many records to count, that he’s won a myriad of  awards, but he’s never felt so remarkable as Paul’s just made him feel. So special and memorable, significant in a way that changes the course of everything just by existing. Paul squeezes his hand tighter and it brings John right back. It brings him back to six inches in front of Paul, feeling remarkably and significantly lucky to be allowed to exist here. It brings him back and he finds himself looking directly at Paul and Paul looking directly back at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Paul looks back down at John’s hand in his, just for a second, and before he loses the nerve, he kisses the back of John’s fingers. John doesn’t hear it, but he swears he can feel it. There’s an </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span> being passed between them. Paul’s is stricken and inspired, while John’s is just tangibly true and patient. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John wants to tell him; he wants to put words to what they’re giving each other, but he doesn’t. Because he’s done this once before and it nearly cracked them in half. No, it’ll have to be Paul this time. It will have to be Paul that decides what they call the light between them. It was the only way to make it work. John would always be here to help him rebuild, but Paul would have to decide what to call himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like it isn’t what he actually means, Paul tells him: “We should sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods and he realizes he’s back in that place, he’s come full circle: he’d give Paul anything he wanted. He realizes his love for Paul never went anywhere, not really, but just like himself, it had been rebuilt with something stronger. He didn’t feel so broken at the prospect of Paul not loving him back. It was just love, love that John would always have for him, no matter what. It had become something mature and responsible, brash enough to carry Paul through uncertainty without frightening him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels more like that French version of himself than he ever has: content here with Paul next to him, loving him, even though he hasn’t said it. He feels warmed as though he were touched by a sunset, as though there was rushing water beneath his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s a man who loves everything, and it takes everything he has to keep from saying it. So, he thinks it instead, wills it as an idea into Paul’s head, in case he hasn’t caught it yet already. Paul’s eyes are hooded by his eyelashes, but he looks up at John and John knows he’s heard him. He blushes his graciousness, then she shifts a little closer, and mumbles a quiet: “shove over,” so John does as he’s told, lets Paul’s hand wander across his shoulder, down his back, maneuvering him to where Paul wants him. They end up back-to-front and Paul hitches his chin over John’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks they might as well be in love with one another, that they might as well </span>
  <em>
    <span>have been</span>
  </em>
  <span> in love with one another for years, for generations, because Paul fits against him the way he’d always imagined he would. He can feel Paul breathing against the back of his neck and it’s at such a steady pace that John knows Paul’s found something here too. There would be a piece of themselves here forever, even if they never did anything like this again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John has another dream that night, of himself in his front garden, finding gold coins in the dirt. He realizes Paul must have had the same dream too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In his next letter from Jack, John finds he’s sent him back the polaroid he and Paul had taken together for him. He reads the letter first, sees the words: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want you to have this back. I want you to realize how special it is</span>
  </em>
  <span>, before he lifts the photograph out of the envelope and it makes him hold his breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at Paul first, because, of course he does. Paul isn’t looking at the camera at all; he’s looking right at John and he’s soft at the edges, outlined by warm light bouncing off the running water behind them. John realizes he isn’t looking at the camera either. His eyes are somewhere between Paul and the lens, like he’d really been trying to take a proper picture, but just hadn’t been able to help himself. Paul was there, next to him, loving him, how was he meant to not look?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders how he can love someone so deliberately and still not understand the multitudes going on between them. John thinks he’s never seen so much love between two people. He looks at this photograph and feels it in his heart. He thinks he would, even if he weren’t looking down at a photograph of himself. He goes warm and gracious. He wants to keep the photograph forever, and he’s so glad that Jack had been able to see it for what it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s their first photograph </span>
  <em>
    <span>together</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Except neither of them had known it yet. John hardly knows it now. He wishes Paul would say it because he realizes the version of himself that loves and has Paul is the same version of himself right here, right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you looking at?” Paul asks absently as he steps out from the wash closet, still drying his hair with a towel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John must not answer quickly enough, or maybe it’s the way he’s stammering on how much he just wants to tell Paul he loves him. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to speak properly again. But Paul hovers over his shoulder and looks down at the photograph himself. He goes still; they both seem to hold their breath, then John feels Paul’s hand on his shoulder: something soft and mindful, and John realizes that all this time, Paul has been treating him as purposefully as he could, same as John has. And John feels stronger for it. He remembers that version of himself at his movie premiere and wonders who that man even is. He wonders how there had ever been a fiber in his body telling him that he wanted to leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s that photo we took,” John tells him dumbly, even though they’re both looking directly at it. “Jack’s sent it back to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, John watches Paul reach out for the corner of the photo and take it from John’s hand. He treats it so preciously that John suddenly thinks that he ought to let Paul keep it. He looks down at it like it’s a photo of his mother, John knows it because that’s exactly how he looks at photos of Julia: reverent and awe-struck, with the same question that, with Paul, doesn’t hurt to ask: </span>
  <em>
    <span>how was I ever allowed to know you?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a good one,” Paul manages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should keep it,” John tells him and he sees the way that strikes Paul. He glances down at John, then back to the photo, like he can’t believe it. He tugs it closer to his chest, like he’s sure he’ll have this snatched away from him, just like anything else he’d held too close. John nods reassuringly, and Paul must see that he’d never take anything from him, he’d never hurt him, because he swallows hard and the line of his shoulders go a bit softer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love it,” he says as a thank you, and it’s too close to the words that John actually wants to hear that it makes him sigh: one quick, sad thing, that had seen something coming for him, then got something else entirely. Paul must see it, because his eyes go sad, and he starts: “John --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just look after it, yeah?” John says, standing from the chair at the desk. He grabs a jacket, mutters something like, “we should grab something to eat,” before he heads to the door. He pauses, glances back over his shoulder, and sees Paul placing the photograph down gently on the bedside table. He stands it up against the dinky lamp so he doesn’t have to look away from it just yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John suddenly remembers sitting in a pile with Paul on the floor at Cavendish. He remembers Martha lounging between them. He remembers Paul saying something sweet to him, then kissing Martha on the nose. He realizes that this is Paul’s way of showing him. Until he can say it, treating the things around him like they weren’t something to be taken lightly, was how he was showing him. Maybe Paul did know all along that he’d treat John’s body this way someday too. Maybe he knew all along, and he was just waiting for the colours of their souls to start burning at the same brightness again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sees blue around Paul. He realizes that they’ve brought one another back. He looks down at his hands and he thinks he sees something orange. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you coming, Paul?” John asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we bring it back here?” Paul asks. “I’d like to eat here,” he says, and John realizes he’s tethered to that photograph. The same way he’d tethered himself to John in bed. He thinks if he leaves it too long, he’ll lose the love it pours into his heart. And maybe John’s afraid of that too, so he nods. Tells him: “Of course,” and his voice is hardly above a whisper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks everyone must be able to see it on them: the love they have for one another. He isn’t sure he’s ever been able to hide it, but he suddenly sees that Paul can’t either. He feels Paul’s hand at the small of his back, listens as he whispers comments into John’s ears about what he wants and doesn’t want. He thinks it again, with Paul’s body casually pressed up against his, that they might as well have been in love for years. It feels that way. It feels like, somewhere, there was marriage, a life, a family, a piece of art -- somewhere -- they’ve shared all of this before, in this life, in others before it. It feels like the place John always tries to go off to when he’s meditating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit out in front of Paul’s ashram, enjoying their food with one another. It feels like home, even though they’re halfway across the world. John realizes that it’s this sort of thing that his flat is missing. These shared moments over a dinner table. He smiles to himself, remembering Richie telling him about the herb garden just outside his window. He thinks he ought to use it and he realizes that Ringo had been right: that sort of thing would be good for him, it’d good for him to share with another human being. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I ought to learn to cook properly,” he tells Paul. He glances up and just sees Paul watching him. He doesn’t offer any judgement, any encouragement; he looks far off and more present than John’s ever seen him, all at once. “I have a bunch of things growing in the garden in London,” he continues. “I should learn to take care of them properly.” John reaches out and tastes what Paul’s gotten for himself without even thinking about it. “You like that sort of thing, don’t you?” John asks, letting his voice go playful. “Playing farmer and all that.” Paul offers him a smile, because he realizes he should. His head is somewhere else, John can suddenly see that. It’s somewhere else, and John can’t read where. “I’m sure you could show me a thing or two,” John mumbles and as the words come out of his mouth, he realizes he really means to ask Paul to stay with him in the flat. They could live this way: together, sharing food, rebuilding one another from the ground up. He shrugs and looks out across the commune. He can feel Paul studying his profile, his eye lashes, the line of his jaw. “I think I’d like cooking for someone,” he admits, but he really means he’d like cooking for someone he loves. “I don’t know why I never tried it. It was a woman’s work, that’s what they told us, right,” he says and shrugs again. He’s given up on being most of what English society told him to be, why should he stop now? “I should have seen it was all crap way earlier on. I reckon it might have saved me some pain along the way --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John?” Paul interrupts him suddenly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” John mumbles, turning back towards him, and he’s hit by just how wide Paul’s eyes have gone: pleading and honest; the way he can’t quite seem to be able to catch his breath. He’s a bundle of nerves, but more certain and prepared for this moment than he’s ever been for anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” he says, and he means it with the weight of all the years behind them. He means it now, and he means to show John that he’d meant it then too. It had always been love, even when they’d both been afraid of it. Even when John had faced it and Paul couldn’t. And now, it just was. It was love. Simple and true in a way that felt so solid and durable. Something that felt like it could survive life and death and fame and creation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You what?” John manages, because as simple as it is, it’s all so unfathomable. How had they found each other, and how had they decided to love one another at the same time?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, and as if he’s spurred on by that confirmation, he looks to be smiling. “I love you,” he repeats and John feels all the air escape his lungs. He feels his fingertips go numb. He feels like he’s being held close and falling forever, all at once. And he realizes it’s because Paul isn’t afraid. Paul hasn’t just said it, he’s said it without any fear attached to it, and John can’t believe that a love like that has ever been directed at him. He feels complete and lacking, filled and hollowed out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he realizes that he believes Paul. He believes him when he says </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he thinks: that’s what has to make this so special. He’s loved in a way he understands. He’s loved in a way that’s taken Paul months -- hell, years -- to deliberately step deeper and deeper into. And he finally feels safe to be there because he can see that John’s love isn’t all-or-nothing anymore, it’s always </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It would always be the thing that hollowed him out and rebuilt him into something stronger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I miss my chance?” Paul asks and John knows it’s because he still hasn’t been able to say anything back. Even so, Paul says it in a way that John knows he would forgive him if John couldn’t love him that way anymore. It’s kind and selfless and John realizes that they would always try to be those things for one another. There was so much more that went into loving another human being, but always being those two things feels like such a strong foundation that, for the first time ever, John wonders if he’ll actually make it in this world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he stammers and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>sees</span>
  </em>
  <span> the way that that lights Paul up. He goes bright and blue, and John thinks that they must be burning together. “You didn’t miss it,” he tells him, because it’s true. Paul had missed him once, but they’d built this new life, this new chance, together. It didn’t matter that they’d both swung and missed in Paris, all that mattered was that they were here now, burning bright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know what this is between us now,” Paul assures him and John nods, because he knows what Paul really means. He really means that he wants to be kissed, and John’s more than willing to do that for him. “You were telling me all along, and I…” He shakes his head at himself, so John reaches across the table to take his hand. “I was afraid.” It’s an admission of guilt, it’s an absolution, it’s eternal admiration for the things inside of John and inside of himself, that have let him not be that way anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” John tells him and it’s all those things for him too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know when it happened,” Paul admits. “When I stopped…” He trails off, and John just realizes that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter when Paul stopped being afraid, all that matters is that they’d found their way back. As they always would, they’d found their way back. Every version of himself falls into one place because he realizes that all these fragmented versions of himself would have always found the fragmented versions of Paul. “I just… I realized I was more afraid of what my life would be like if I never told you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad,” John tells him, because he doesn’t think he can manage anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do we do?” Paul asks, as though this was something that John could understand any better than he could. He knows what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do: he wants to let Paul kiss him, he wants to go back home to London and start over with him properly, he wants to make Paul write a song about how loving one another had saved his life. He wants all these things, and more, but he can’t say it. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t say it yet. He thinks it must be because there’s still something slightly broken in him, something that makes him want Paul to ask him first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” John stammers. “Whatever you… Whatever you want, Paul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul nods, then John sees him decide to take his time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t say ‘I love you’ as they finish dinner. They don’t say ‘I love you’ during their last meditation lesson of the day. They don’t even say it while they listen to both sides of a record on the wind-up gramophone in Paul’s ashram. They don’t say it, but it’s there, in everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m tired,” John says quietly, lifting himself from the bed once the record finally starts to click. Paul sits up with him. John can feel him watching him as he shuffles towards his bag, picks out a thin t-shirt to sleep in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, the mattress groans under Paul’s shifting weight. John holds his breath, listening for Paul’s bare feet padding towards him. Before he can turn around, before he can finish with the top button of his shirt, he feels one of Paul’s hands at his waist. It’s turning him so they can look at one another. John lets himself look at Paul’s lips, slightly parted for the way he’s breathing a little heavier than he normally would. John thinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I just want to be kissed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he knows, if Jack had been able to hear him, Paul would be too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul bats his hands away and slowly gets to work on the buttons of John’s shirt himself, purposefully keeping his eyes low and hooded. John doesn’t care; it just means he gets to look at Paul’s lips a little longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this alright?” Paul asks by the time he gets to the third button. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes flicker up to John’s and he finds him looking where he shouldn’t be. John lifts his eyes too, because he knows he should, and blushes at the way Paul smirks at him. He supposes he’d just answered Paul’s question, but he nods anyway, mutters a hoarse, “yeah,” even though Paul doesn’t need any more encouragement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The further down he goes, the more Paul seems to allow the back of his fingers to brush up against John’s skin, where it’s most sensitive. With the last button undone, Paul looks back up into John’s eyes, and he keeps them there while he pushes the loose fabric off John’s shoulders. John exhales deeply, feeling vulnerable and exposed, even in the dim light they’ve been left in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul takes John’s sleep shirt from him, lifts it slightly, like he means to gently place it over John’s head, but then he pauses. He pauses and John knows he’s meant to look at him. He’s done this before, this game, with too many women to count, and Brian and Jack, but it suddenly feels brand new. He knows he’s being given a choice: they could take this further, or John could let Paul clothe him, and that would be it for the night. And even though he’s nervous and even though he knows that this would be everything, he knows he wants to be kissed. And he wants to be kissed by Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, before he can think too much about it, he takes his shirt from Paul, drops it deliberately to the floor and then goes for the hem of Paul’s t-shirt. He isn’t even able to pull it up and over Paul’s head before Paul presses their lips together. He pushes John’s hands away, because they’ll get there, right now, Paul just wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him and let his hands trace along every part of John that he’s never been allowed to touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s something hungry; John would be lying if he called it slow and gentle, but he doesn’t mind. It’s the way he’s always imagined Paul would kiss; it’s the way he’s always imagined himself kissing Paul. And he’s right, all along he’d been right: it’s everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mattress comes up to meet his back before he even realizes Paul’s guided him back to the bed. It’s skin against skin before John even realizes he’s on autopilot. It’s everything, and it’s nothing. It’s ethereal in its nothingness, but then Paul will touch him the right way and the hair on the back of his neck will stand on end and it’ll remind him that he’s a human being. That he’s alive and sharing something precious with somebody else. And he thinks he likes that better. He likes feeling Paul press bruises into his biceps, he likes making Paul’s lips go pink by nipping and tugging at them, more than he likes being an orange light, burning bright with one that’s blue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows, somewhere, his soul is finding Paul’s, but he realizes that that really only happens when they kiss one another. When they allow their bodies so close that there’s hardly any space between them at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> any space between them. They’re together and it’s everything. Paul buries his nose into the crook of John’s neck and they’re lost. John closes his eyes and sees Woolton, he sees Hamburg and New York City, he sees Cavendish, and then he sees his new flat in London. Except it isn’t empty and he isn’t alone. His mind goes blank, then he feels Paul’s weight on top of him, and he realizes that </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> is </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He realizes that he’s never been happier than this moment: nothing in his head, and Paul all around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul rolls off of him, still gulping in a few breaths. He stares up at the ceiling, and John watches his chest heave up and down, he watches him come back to himself, but not all of him. John realizes that Paul’s left a little bit of himself behind for John to keep, forever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Paul turns to look at him, and even though it’s dark, even though John isn’t wearing his glasses, he sees what Paul is passing to him. His eyes are glassy with the exertion and maybe something else too, because he tells John: “I love you,” and John realizes he hadn’t stopped saying that since he laid John’s head down on the pillow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John wants to tell Paul that he heard him the first time, but something tells him to remember this moment. And he doesn’t want to remember it as something he ruined with some defense mechanism, so instead, he tells Paul the truth: “I love you too,” and he realizes he hasn’t said it back yet, not properly, and it makes Paul sink deeper into the mattress, makes him close his eyes, and live easy knowing the way that John loving him feels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John edges closer, because they’ve just been locked in a way John doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of. He can’t imagine what any given moment would be like if he couldn’t have Paul’s skin against his own. He rests his cheek down on Paul's chest and lets one hand trace lazy circles on his abdomen. Paul doesn’t let that last for long though, he takes John’s hand in his, studies it like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and John realizes that it might actually be. Paul locks their fingers together and breathes in an easy sigh. He could live here forever, John suddenly sees that, and then he sees themselves at the Seine. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ask me again once the film’s sorted…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The film had been sorted, their baggage had been sorted, the grief and trauma of Brian leaving them, it had all been sorted. So, taking a deep breath, suddenly unafraid of the answer Paul would give him, John asks: “Would you stay here with me forever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels Paul go still beneath him, feels his breath catch somewhere behind his rib cage, and when it returns to him, it comes out in something shaky. John looks up at him and his eyes are still glassy. John can see that he can’t believe he’d answered this question any other way, so he tells John: “Yes,” as adamant as John needs to hear it, because they’ve missed once before. Paul wouldn’t let them miss again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, plants a soft kiss to Paul’s chest, then lets himself close his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees Paul there, the way he had looked on that Parisian rooftop, take your pick of the year. He sees the side of his face, the length of his eye lashes, his lips. And that halo of light around him. Always around him. And he realizes it hadn’t been the streetlamp flickering behind him, painting that way at all. There’d always been something light behind Paul, and John had always known it was there. Something warm and comforting that had made him good and worth loving just by having illuminated him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There would be that light, that sun, on the other side of Paul always. Something he’d found by looking into Paul, by looking through him, and allowing Paul to do the same right back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of that version of himself that had walked into Mary’s office alone, and he loves him. He looks up at Paul, and thinks of Cynthia and Jools, and George and Rings. All of these people, himself included, they’d built him this chance at something meaningful. They’d lifted him beyond this stark desire to be good -- to be inherently good. He would never be inherently good; he would always be good because all of these people had illuminated him. And he’d finally learned to allow them to.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <b>THE END.</b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <em>
    <span>“I think I could stand anything, any suffering, only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, 'I exist.' <br/>I</span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
  <span>n thousands of agonies -- I exist. I'm tormented on the rack -- but I exist! Though I sit alone in a pillar -- I exist! <br/>I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>-Fyodor Dostoyevsky</span>
</p>
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